Eistier
by SamoaPhoenix9
Summary: Just before the French Revolution, a prince makes a bargain for power that transforms him into a monster. Exiled to the German border, with the enchantress who changed him as his only companion, he fades into a nightmare legend. Then an encounter in the woods leads him to question everything. Historical/fantasy dark AU.
1. Prologue

**Eistier**

_Disclaimer: I do not own Beauty and the Beast._

* * *

_In an isolated winter forest somewhere in Europe, Anno Domini 1786…_

A woman sat at a table, staring with unbroken concentration at a black ceramic bowl brimming with water. So intent was her gaze, she did not even flinch at the howling wind outside her single-roomed hut. Flecks of white snow occasionally found their way under the crack beneath the door, accompanied by blasts of freezing air that ruffled her gray skirts and equally gray hair, but she did not move to remedy this discomfort.

Nor did she seem aware of the squalor that surrounded her. A bed of rags in one corner was the only furniture besides the table on which the black bowl rested and the chair upon which the woman sat. Even the table was badly battered, its inclination to wobble remedied by piles of dead leaves under three of its four legs. The hut also smelled strongly. A visitor—had there been one on this most inhospitable of nights—might have first attributed the smell to the myriad hanging bunches of dried herbs that almost obscured the thatch of the ceiling. A second whiff of the air would have brought the undercurrent of mildew, old urine and dung to the nose. A third breath, if the visitor's nose had not already begun to clog from the strength of all the other smells, might have revealed one final aroma: old blood.

A ripple stirred the surface of the water. If possible, the woman's glittering golden eyes became even more intense. Her lightly lined skin shimmered a little with a sheen of sweat.

Slowly, so slowly the nonexistent visitor might have believed she was imagining things, an image took shape on the surface of the water. There was no sound to the image, but there was plenty of movement.

It showed a sickly young boy of about five or six, and a pretty woman in her late twenties. There was enough resemblance between them that they were clearly mother and son. Both wore extremely sumptuous clothing, particularly the mother. Her hair was piled to an astounding height on top of her head and powdered so heavily white it was impossible to tell its true color. They appeared to be arguing passionately; the mother scolding, the boy swinging between maturely holding his ground and stamping around the room in a childish rage. The mother flung up her hands in an exasperated gesture.

The view in the bowl expanded to show a room as opulent as the unseen watcher's surroundings were wretched. Gilding glittered from every surface. The walls were lined with expensive silk. A massive bed hung with magnificent curtains sat against one wall. Through the large glassed window, a light snow was visible, nothing compared to the blizzard outside the watcher's hovel, but enough to indicate that the seasons, at least, were the same.

An enormously fat man appeared at the door to the room, dressed as sumptuously as the other two. His entrance ended the argument, whatever it was about. The mother straightened and dipped a slight curtsy, the boy, though red in the face from his outbursts, reluctantly bowed. The man waddled into the room and kissed the woman on the cheek with gentle affection. She almost concealed her revolted expression when he touched her, but the boy noticed. Their unseen watcher noticed, too.

The man next beckoned to the boy. The boy came forward and the man patted his head absentmindedly. Standing next to each other, it was evident that if the boy were five times heavier than his present weight, he might bear as much similarity to the man as he did to the woman, marking this small group as a family unit.

The man spoke. Even in the small image it was clear he was asking what the argument was about.

The water in the bowl trembled in a particularly strong gust of wind from the crack under the door. Beads of sweat broke out on the watcher's face. After some struggle, the image cleared again to show the woman gesturing at the boy while the child glared with flashing blue eyes at both his parents. Then a drop of sweat rolled from the watcher's chin into the bowl, shattering the image as effectively as if a rock had been thrown point-blank at a mirror.

The image vanished. The woman gasped and sat back. She spent several long moments taking deep, steadying breaths. Then she seemed to gather herself. Cupping her hands around the bowl, she stared at it with the same intensity as before.

This time, a single image did not appear in the bowl. It was a series of flashing images that went by so fast there was almost no time to register one before a new one took its place. It showed images of starving people, of barren fields, of men speaking angrily to each other in taverns. The observer seemed particularly interested in the next image, that of a child-sized golden coffin. That image stayed in the bowl for several seconds, with enough time to see the same woman from the first scene weeping beside the little coffin. Then the images moved on to show an enormous hall full of well-dressed men arguing, large crowds breaking into a fortress, people waving flags and cheering in the streets, scenes that appeared to be trials and finally image after image of a device with a dropping blade, the blade covered in blood, severing the heads of person after person.

The watcher seemed to enjoy these images most of all. Keeping her intense golden gaze on the bowl, she could not prevent the slight, hungry smile on her lips.

At last, she closed her eyes. The images faded away from the water as subtly as they had appeared. The woman did not move for some time after that.

At last, she seemed to gather herself. Opening her eyes, she made as if to stand, but in so doing happened to catch her own reflection in the now-clear water.

She made a noise of angry indignation and put a hand to her hair. That hair, which when she first began to look at the image of the boy and the young woman had been the same darkish dull gray as her dress, had lightened several shades closer to white. There were a few new lines on her face as well. She traced the deepest line at the corner of one eye with a finger. Then she pushed the bowl away, splattering some water onto the table.

Rising from the chair, she picked up the bowl of water and carried it to the door, moving like an exhausted old woman. She managed to fling open the door dramatically, admitting the full power of the storm. The bunches of herbs tossed and rippled like a brownish sea above her head. The tiny room filled with whirling white powder.

The woman seemed not to notice the wind or the intense cold. She flung what was left of the water out into the air, which froze into a single graceful arc almost as soon as it left the bowl. The long, curved icicle fell into the snow on the ground and was instantly covered by wind and more snow.

The woman turned on her heel back into the hovel, slamming the door behind her. Luckily it was just sturdy enough that the force didn't take it off its hinges. Wading through the inch or so of snow that had accumulated on the dirt floor, she sat back down at the table, placing the empty bowl with care upon it.

"I cannot afford to use so much magic again. Not until it is time to reveal myself," she muttered. Her words, in contrast to her miserable surroundings, was cultured and educated. She balefully pulled a lock of whitish-gray hair in front of her eyes and examined it. Then she flung it back behind her shoulders. Reaching into the pocket of her dress, she produced a length of cord and bound her hair back so that she could no longer see it.

Reaching above her, she found a particular bunch of herbs and pulled it down. Thoughtfully, she broke off a few branches and idly began to chew them. Though her hair did not grow darker nor her face less lined, she did seem to gain more energy until her movements, at least, were as quick and graceful as a young woman's.

"I had hoped to wait several more years, until he was a bit older, a little more spoiled and corrupt of his own volition," she said to herself as she chewed. "But the fates, it seems, will snatch him out of my hands unless I act. It is unfortunate, but there is still much to be gained from this situation. If I do not act quickly, I shall lose him, and then I should be forced to choose another if I wish more power. This chance will not come again for quite some time."

Reaching again into her pocket, she produced a stone about the size of her clenched fist. Concentrating briefly, she stared at it until it began to throw off a significant amount of heat that finally combated the freezing cold. This effort brought no change in her appearance. With a satisfied sigh, she set it down on the table in the empty bowl and began to pull more bunches of herbs down from the thatch.

* * *

_Author's Note: After several years' hiatus, I have returned to the Beauty and the Beast fandom at last, with another somewhat ambiguous fic, though without the potentially triggering material of _Kissed By a Rose_. The initial idea for this one came from a visit to Busch Gardens Williamsburg and the indoor 3D ride _Curse of DarKastle_, and those of you familiar with it will recognize some elements. After some discussion with the folks at the Bittersweet and Strange forum where I ironed out the more concrete ideas for this fic, and time off so that I could move and settle into a new job, I have begun it at last. It was such a cool idea that I didn't want to let it sit._

_The title, btw, translates (I hope) as "Ice Creature" in German._

_SamoaPhoenix9_


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own Beauty and the Beast. That belongs to Disney._

_In the Palais de Versailles, Anno Domini 1787_

"Louis Joseph!"

"_Dauphin_!"

"Young prince! Your highness! Come back here!"

The shouts followed the young _dauphin_ as he fled down the corridor. The six-year-old boy could not run very fast, for two reasons. First, he wore tight-fitting silk trousers that restricted the movement of his little legs. Second, he ran with a slight limp.

Luckily for him, the women who pursued him were even more restricted in their enormous dresses and high powdered wigs. The boy easily outstripped them despite his handicaps. He grinned. His nursemaids couldn't call the guards to bring him back; it was forbidden for any of them to lay a hand on the crown prince of France. They knew from experience the boy would return on his own if given time.

Through a twisting maze of corridors he fled. Once he even ducked into a secret passageway. At last he slipped out a side door into the frozen outdoors. The heavy snow from a week ago was still on the ground, but the sun was out and the already stunning grounds of Versailles sparkled.

The boy, Louis Joseph Xavier François, _dauphin _de France and eldest son of King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette, paused and took a deep breath. He loved the grounds of Versailles in wintertime. Not only were they pristine and beautiful when during the summertime they were often overgrown, but fewer courtiers chose to risk going outside and ruining their fine clothes. The further from the palace, the less likely he was to run into anyone.

The snow was not deep enough to cause too much of a problem for the limping young prince. Here and there he wandered, still seething.

Why, oh why had his parents found it necessary to have more children? Wasn't he enough? He didn't mind his older sister Marie Thérèse, much. Being a girl, she was not the focus of everyone's attention. When they were together, they were always warmly polite, and she often defended him against their older cousins. It was his younger brother Louis Charles and baby sister Sophie Hélène he couldn't stand, especially Louis Charles. Why did they need another son? They'd even given their two boys the same first name. The prince didn't care that this was the custom of the French royal house and that his father the king and uncle the comte de Provence also had the name Louis. They were grown-ups and didn't count. It also didn't matter that he had privately thought of himself as Xavier ever since his annoying older cousin Charles Ferdinand had pointed out that his second name, "Joseph", was the same as his mother's brother the Holy Roman Emperor of Austria. Austria was a bad country; everyone at court said so. "Xavier" seemed to belong to him and him alone. "Louis" and "Joseph" were insults, reminders of names he shared with other people.

He wouldn't have minded baby Sophie, except everyone always seemed to be making a fuss about her. She hadn't been healthy ever since she was born, but no one would ever say quite what was wrong with her. She just seemed to be constantly sick—worse than Xavier himself with his bad leg—and always, always, _always _crying. His mother in particular was often to be found in the nursery with the baby even though she had attendants and nursemaids to take care of her all the time. Even his father the King asked after his youngest daughter more than his other three children combined.

It had been a fight with Xavier's cousin Charles Ferdinand that had begun the whole problem today. Charles Ferdinand was a strong, healthy boy and three years older than the crown prince. Though forbidden to physically harm the _dauphin_ in any way, the older boy had found many creative ways to bully his crippled cousin. These mostly took the form of daring him to complete physical feats that a healthy nine-year-old found easy but were all but impossible for a six-year-old with a bad leg.

Deprived of any way to have revenge on his bigger cousin, Xavier would take to tormenting Louis Charles and Sophie, as they were the only targets smaller and weaker. It made him feel better somehow. Today in a fit of temper, he had overturned Sophie's heavy wooden cradle, then fled when the nursemaids were attracted by the baby's screams.

He knew already he would be in a lot of trouble with the royal governess and his mother the queen when he returned. But that would be delayed as long as possible.

He had lost track of where he was while his mind was occupied. It felt like he suddenly looked up and he was in a part of the palace grounds he had never seen before. The trees were thick, so thick there was not much snow on the ground. Glancing around, the boy was mildly surprised he had not yet tripped on a root, hampered as he was by his bad leg. Getting back to the palace would be interesting now that he was alerted to the danger.

He turned around, and an icy wind ruffled his long hair. It was so shockingly cold that he shivered in spite of himself.

A twig snapping made him spin, clutching a nearby tree trunk for support.

An old woman in gray peasant's garb stood there. At least, his first impression was that she was old, but on second glance, perhaps she wasn't. It was hard to tell. She had long unpowdered gray hair, and her face was lined. However, she stood straight and proud. Her intense golden eyes seemed to see straight into him.

"Who are you, peasant?" he demanded, matching the pride of her stance with his tone. "How dare you come onto the palace grounds! Begone, or I'll call the guards and have you hauled away to prison."

Privately, he was fascinated. He'd never seen a real, live peasant this close before.

"Bonjour, young prince," the woman said. She swept a curtsy with her plain skirts that made the prince momentarily question labeling her as a peasant. He didn't think peasants knew how to curtsy properly. At least, they didn't according to his oldest cousin Louis Antoine, who was allowed to go to the opera and the ballet in Paris. This woman's curtsy was worthy of a trained noblewoman.

She smiled at him. "I think we both know the guards won't hear if you call. Isn't that why you're out here?"

"How do you know that?" he demanded.

"A good guess." She smiled again. "What brings you out here, my child?"

She was really interested. Something about her tone told the young boy she really wanted to know. Flattered—no one in the palace actually listened to what he had to say with interest—he found himself telling her everything. About how Charles Ferdinand teased him, how he hated his little brother and sister, how his parents weren't really interested in him unless he misbehaved. How it disgusted him that his mother had a male "friend" who was not his father. How he wished he weren't crippled so that he could finally beat Charles Ferdinand at something. All his complaints, big and small, came pouring out of him.

The woman listened the entire time, making sympathetic noises every so often and encouraging whenever he faltered. Strangely, neither of them seemed to grow cold while the prince talked. The boy hardly noticed. It was so wonderful to have someone to just talk to, who didn't brush him off as the poor little cripple who—he'd pretended not to hear the rumors, but he couldn't help it when people talked as if he was too stupid to understand—would never grow up to be king.

"I don't want to die," he finished a little tearfully. "I want to be big and strong and grownup someday so that I can show them all they're wrong. I want to make them regret not being nice to me."

"Poor child," the woman said. "So much to bear, so young. You know what? I think they're all going to regret not being nice to you someday. I think—no. Perhaps not."

"What?" he demanded. "What were you going to say?"

"I think—well, I think I might be able to help you."

He was somehow so excited by this prospect he forgot to scoff at what this lone woman could do for all his problems. "How?"

"I could give you what you want. I could promise that you would grow up to be big and strong. I could give you the power to make anyone who hurts you regret it." She paused. "Would you like that?"

"Of course I would! Tell me how!"

"Well, there are one or two small conditions. The first is that you would have to learn from me how to control your power. You won't be able to at first after I give it to you. It will take years. Do you think you can do that? I promise it would be worth it in the end to learn."

"I…I think I can if I try hard enough."

"Good boy!" He beamed at her praise. She became solemn again, almost hesitant. "The second thing…you'd have to listen to me when I tell you things. If you don't listen to my advice, I can't guarantee things will turn out the way you want. I'll do my best, but you'd have to heed me or you might not grow up to be big and strong."

"If I could live to grow up big and strong, I'll do anything!" Xavier promised.

"Anything?" The woman's gold eyes flashed for a moment. "Well, a promise is a promise. I've heard yours—I do have your oath, yes?"

"Of course!" the boy said. He felt very grown-up. He'd heard courtiers give oaths to his father before. They were important. If they weren't kept, bad things happened to the people who broke their oaths.

The woman smiled. The boy blinked, a little taken aback. How could he have thought she was old? He'd thought she'd had gray hair when he first saw her but now it was a rich, darkish black-brown. When had that happened? It hadn't just gotten that way—he'd been watching. Somehow, without him really paying attention, it had gotten darker and darker as he had been telling her his troubles. She now looked no older than his mother the Queen.

"Good. I have your oath, then. Let us begin. You must promise not to be frightened."

"I—what?" Xavier stumbled a step back.

The woman's golden eyes glowed briefly. She seemed to vanish, and in her place stood an enormous gray-black wolf.

Xavier was paralyzed. He'd never seen a wolf outside the royal menagerie. Seeing one without reassuring fences between them was much more terrifying. It could kill him in one snap of its jaws.

The wolf approached him slowly. Xavier closed his eyes, waiting for it to lunge. He felt betrayed. The woman had promised him he would grow up big and strong! Now it seemed like he was going to die within a minute or two of that promise!

A cold nose nuzzled his bad leg. He flinched and shuddered but still couldn't bring himself to run. Gently, he felt enormous sharp teeth take hold of his silk stocking and tear holes in it until it fell in shreds to the ground, exposing his bare leg. Those teeth never nicked the tender skin. Then a warm, rough tongue licked from his ankle to his knee. The warmth lingered strangely, then spread all over the leg.

He felt odd. It was hard to breathe; his vest, coat, breeches and shoes were too tight. Especially the shoe on his bad foot. That couldn't be right—his clothes were always made to fit him exactly by the royal tailors. He'd never felt these sensations of his clothes almost choking him. He tore at his coat with fingers that felt too thick. He managed to get the coat open but it was too late for his vest—the gold buttons on it popped off into the snow.

Last of all he felt the wolf's jaws close over his hand hard enough to draw blood. This was too much. He cried out and staggered backwards into a tree. Snow from a branch fell on him, and he slipped and sat down hard. The snow sliding off the tree almost buried him.

Flailing, he dug himself out. When he wiped the snow from his face, the first thing he saw was the woman. The wolf was gone.

"I am truly sorry about your hand," she said. "It was necessary for our agreement."

"You _hurt_ me," Xavier said petulantly. "No one is allowed to do that. You could be executed for harming the _dauphin._"

"But you wouldn't want me executed, would you?" the woman said in mock horror. "Not when I've already started to keep my promise."

"What?"

"Come with me. I'll show you." She extended a hand and helped him up. He followed her out of the trees and out into a meadow. At its edge was a small pond, the water frozen solid.

"Look," she said, waving a hand at the ice.

Xavier looked. He blinked, and looked again. It was definitely him in the reflection on the ice—he recognized himself as the boy he saw in the mirror every day. But he was different somehow, too. He was definitely bigger. Definitely taller. No longer a skinny, sickly waif who looked like a breeze could knock him down, as Charles Ferdinand had once claimed. The leg with the torn stocking was just as fit and straight as the other leg. Thinking back, he realized he had not limped on his walk from the trees to the pond. His eyes no longer looked too big for his face. He looked a bit wild, with his clothes torn and too small, but other than that he was amazed at how much he enjoyed looking at this new self.

"This is what you should have looked like, had you been strong and healthy all your life," the woman said. "What a difference, yes? I'm sure you'll be able to show your cousin a thing or two. And this is just the start. You'll grow up now, into a strong, healthy man. And I haven't even begun to teach you how to use the real power I've given you.

"All you have to do, for now, is to go back to the palace. Oh, but what am I thinking? You can't go back to the palace looking like that!" She made a pass with one hand, and her eyes flashed. In an instant his clothes fit his new body perfectly again. Even the ripped stocking was restored.

He ran a hand down one sleeve.

"Now, all you have to do is go back. If anyone says anything about the change, just say you found someone to help you. Only that. It will make them nervous. Don't tell anyone about me. Not even a tiny detail."

"But—"

"Remember you promised to do what I told you! I can't guarantee this will last if you don't. Go on now. Enjoy it, my young friend. I will see you soon."

The boy gave her one joyful look as possibilities gleamed in his mind. He took off running.

* * *

_Author's Note: This is a huge departure for me in a couple of ways. First, I am setting this story in a specific time period, which to me means the drive to be historically accurate gets exponentially stronger. So I will say a few words about that. All of the characters mentioned in this chapter (except the Enchantress of course) are real historical figures (I made up their personalities). This includes the Prince himself, Louis Joseph Xavier François. Those of you familiar with the French Revolution are probably burning with questions about how this is all going to work. All I can say for now is that it's an experiment, but I think it will all work out satisfactorily. I _do _have a plan._

_Second, I am taking time to thoroughly explore the Prince's backstory instead of rushing through it in prologue format. Though Belle will play a significant role, this story is shaping up to be mostly Xavier's (I do like the ring of that name. If anyone tells me Disney named him Adam, in this case I will just roll my eyes at you)._

_This chapter was hard to start, and the next one will be, too. Spending time with an unpleasant little boy and a manipulative witch is just not a fun prospect._

_SamoaPhoenix9_


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Disclaimer: I do not own Beauty and the Beast or its characters._

Xavier went racing back to the palace on light feet. Never had he felt so free. This was what Charles Ferdinand must feel like all the time, the young boy reasoned: powerful. It was a wonderful feeling.

As luck would have it, one of the first people he ran into once he arrived back in the palace was Charles Ferdinand himself. Literally ran into—the boys plowed facefirst into one another in the middle of a corridor. Charles Ferdinand staggered. Xavier fell over heavily on his backside. Even in his newly restored body he did not have the weight Charles Ferdinand did.

The bigger boy turned his usual sneer on his cousin. "They're looking for you, _dauphin_. You're in big—" He stopped as Xavier slowly pushed himself up to his new height. Xavier stood as tall as he was able, thrusting out his chin slightly in order to dare Charles Ferdinand to comment on his altered appearance. He made certain to rest his weight equally on both legs as the fencing masters taught, instead of favoring his bad leg as he used to do.

The color ebbed from Charles Ferdinand's face. The young prince was gratified to see his cousin truly stunned for the first time he could remember. They stood staring at each other. Charels Ferdinand worked his mouth a few times before he could get sound to come out. Finally, he managed, "It's the baby. Princess Sophie. She's…they're saying…they're saying she's dead."

This was so far from what Xavier had expected him to say that this time he was the one struck dumb. Then he remembered. _He_ had overturned his sister's cradle before running outside. He had just been so frustrated with Charles Ferdinand's teasing. Sophie had been crying, as usual, when he went into the royal nursery. He had stalked up to the cradle and deliberately pushed it over, then fled the moment her screams intensified.

And now…

And now his baby sister was dead.

Xavier knew deep inside that it was his fault. Baby Sophie had always been weak and sick. Pushing over the cradle had probably hurt her badly. Badly enough that within a few hours she had died.

For a moment the guilt threatened to overwhelm him. He had never liked the baby, always been jealous of the attention given her. But he had never meant to hurt her, really.

He had wished many times that she hadn't been born. He hadn't meant for her to _die_.

"You're lying!" he screamed at Charles Ferdinand. "Admit you're lying!"

"No, your highness!" his cousin cried. "The ladies-in-waiting are all saying it…the King and Queen and the bishop are all in the nursery. They were looking for you…"

"No!" shouted Xavier. His vision seemed sparkling with red flashes. Without thinking, he struck out at a small table sitting in the hallway. Something happened. His hand, especially the nails, felt very strange.

He and Charles Ferdinand stared at the table. There were now four long gashes in its polished wooden surface.

Claw marks.

Charles Ferdinand went, if possible, even whiter than before. He turned on his heel and fled down the corridor, small pigtail flying behind him like a little beribboned banner of defeat. His royal blue coattails flapped up and down in a way that would have seemed comical to Xavier under any other circumstances.

The boy stared at his hand. Was it possible he had made those marks? His nails weren't strong enough. However, on close inspection he found a few wooden splinters under them. Other than that his hand appeared perfectly normal.

Xavier took a step and examined his face in the tall mirror above the table. His new appearance was still startling, but he looked completely human. Claw marks like that, he would have expected to come from some sort of wild beast. A bear, perhaps, or a wolf.

A wolf…

He recalled the old woman on the grounds turning herself into a wolf. Had she made him like her, able to turn into a wolf? The thought both chilled and exhilarated him. He leaned forward to look at his ears, half-expecting them to be covered with fur and pointy. He'd have to find the woman again, ask her what exactly she had done to him when they made their bargain.

At that moment, a maidservant with a tear-streaked face rounded the corner and saw him. She immediately hustled him away, scolding him for having disappeared when they King and Queen had been asking about him. She didn't even notice the table. Xavier did not point it out. The woman was also too distracted to even notice his changed appearance, or that he was no longer limping.

"Is it true?" he asked. "My cousin Charles Ferdinand has told me my sister Princess Sophie has died. Is it true?"

"The King has asked for you," was all she would say.

The boy allowed himself to be herded. Too many shocks in one day was settling a kind of numbness on him.

In the nursery, his parents and remaining sister and brother were waiting for him. The Queen and Marie Thérèse still had tears streaming down their faces. Louis Charles just looked confused at what all the commotion was about. They all turned to the door when Xavier was brought inside.

The King's face became stern. Marie Thérèse appeared both relieved and puzzled. The Queen's sorrowful face smoothed into an emotionless chill.

"Come here, boy," Louis XVI ordered. Xavier bristled a little. His father had never used that tone with him before. That was the tone reserved for common subjects, not his family. However, Xavier dared not disobey. He approached the King and bowed correctly. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Marie Thérèse's eyes go big as she saw him walk without a limp.

"Child," said Marie Antoinette from her chair. Her voice sounded horse, as if she'd been ill. "Tell us what happened this morning."

For a second, Xavier panicked, his numb shock fading. They knew about the bargain with the woman in gray! How could they possibly know already? Yes, he looked different, but they couldn't know how it had come about!

Both of his parents went colder at the obvious guilt on his face. "You pushed over the cradle, didn't you?" the Queen demanded.

So that was what they were on about, not his bargain! Xavier felt a little relieved, though he still did feel bad that his sister had died. Yet, the deed was done. He saw no point in denying it. It wasn't as if they could punish him too harshly. He was the _dauphin _de France.

"Yes," he said. "I pushed over the cradle."

"But why?" the Queen asked. Her voice broke just a little.

"She wouldn't stop crying. It made me angry. But…" here he hesitated. "I didn't mean for her to be hurt. I just wanted her to stop crying for once."

"That doesn't change the fact that your sister is dead," said the King harshly.

"It was an accident," Xavier protested.

"You just admitted you pushed over the cradle on purpose," Marie Antoinette pointed out. "Louis Joseph, your sister has always been sick. That's why she cried so much. What did you think would happen?"

"I…" He had no words. He hadn't thought. That was the truth of it.

The King and Queen looked helplessly at one another. The King's heavy face went a deep crimson. "I want Count von Fersen out. Banished from court," he said unexpectedly.

Marie Antoinette's mouth dropped open. "What has Axel to do with this? It is our son we must deal with!"

"You can't expect me to believe it any longer. No son of mine would do so callous a thing as to kill an infant, his own sister."

The Queen was stunned for an instant. Her own face went red with fury. She swept a hand at Xavier. "Look at him, Louis! He's the spitting image of you! He is the _dauphin_, a Son of France!"

Everyone else in the room had been listening to this exchange with astonishment and horror. None more than Xavier. He knew the man they were talking about, Count von Fersen from far-off Sweden. He knew his mother preferred to spend time with the count than with her own husband and there were whispers about the impropriety of their friendship among the courtiers. But the King seemed to be implying that he, Xavier, was not in fact a prince but the son of that lowly count. And all because he had accidentally killed his baby sister.

Suddenly he felt his hand seized. He looked up to find Marie Thérèse. She had Louis Charles by the other hand and was forcibly dragging her two brothers from the room. Xavier was too stunned by what he had just heard to resist her painful grip. The princess gave a meaningful look at the nursemaids still in the room. Obediently they bowed their heads and accompanied the royal children from the room.

Once in the next room, Marie Thérèse handed Louis Charles to one of the nurses. "Don't speak a word of what you just heard," she warned. "It was not for your ears."

"_Oui_, princess," said both nursemaids. They curtsied again and left.

Marie Thérèse and Xavier regarded each other. "It was an accident, I promise," Xavier finally managed.

"I believe you," his sister said. They both winced as renewed shouts, muffled by the walls, echoed from the nursery.

"What did Papa mean? Does he really think Count von Fersen is my father?" asked Xavier. "That I'm not a prince?"

"Papa is angry about the death of our sister," Marie Thérèse said. "He does not mean what he says. _Maman_ is right. You look just like him." Her eyes narrowed as she thought of something. "More so now than this morning. What happened to you, Xavi?"

Only she ever called him that, and had done so ever since he asked her to call him anything but "Louis" or "Joseph". It had become a joke between them. Still, he didn't feel comfortable telling his sister about the old woman. She had said not to tell anyone how he had been healed. "I'm just better," he said evasively.

Marie Thérèse's expression said she did not believe him. However, she said nothing. She only looked a little hurt. "Don't stay here," she finally said. "You will only overhear upsetting things, things that have to do with Papa and _Maman_ more than us or even baby Sophie. But don't go too far. Papa and _Maman_ will be even more angry if they have to send the guards looking for you."

They left in different directions. Xavier longed to go outside again but with Marie Thérèse's words in mind he didn't dare. Instead he wandered down to the Chapel Royal, where they heard Mass. It was deserted at this time; even the priests were off on other business.

The numbness began to fade suddenly, leaving Xavier with a deep, aching despair. He had killed his sister. His parents were fighting because of him. What was he going to do? He had just about started crying when he felt fur brush against the backs of his knees.

He turned to find the old woman standing there. "My sister is dead," he blurted out. "I killed her. I didn't mean to."

"I know," the woman said. "But you shouldn't be too upset. She was sick all the time. Now she isn't sick anymore. I'm sure she's…much happier where she is now. If she were here now, she would probably be thanking you for sparing her more pain and suffering. And, she won't bother you again with her crying. Isn't that something to be happy about?"

Put that way, it made sense. It was a relief to know that she wasn't going to be keeping the whole nursery awake at night anymore. And it was true that baby Sophie was no longer sick. She must have been miserable, to be crying all the time. Maybe the old woman was right.

"I'm still in trouble with my parents," he pointed out. "They're angry, even if it was just an accident."

"You are the _dauphin _de France," the woman pointed out with a hint of scorn. "What are they going to do? Execute you? Throw you in a dungeon? Of course not! You are foolish to worry about what they might do to you."

Since this was just what Xavier had been thinking himself, he could hardly argue. It was reassuring to have the old woman confirm his thoughts.

The woman saw his expression clear and nodded in firm approval. "Good lad. Push those thoughts from your mind. I have brought you other things to occupy it."

Xavier remembered what had happened when he had gotten angry with Charles Ferdinand. "Can I turn into a wolf?" he asked eagerly.

She laughed. For some reason he didn't like the sound, but chose to ignore the feeling.

"No. With time and training, you will be able to become something much greater."

Any sorrow or guilt he felt vanished in an instant in his excitement. "Show me how. Please."

"Remember I told you it would take years," she warned.

"I don't care." He looked at his hand, the one that had briefly become a claw. He remembered the hot flash of excitement when he had found the wood splinters of the table under his nails. He had done that. It had felt powerful, wonderful. Even more so than being able to run on two good legs.

"Teach me."

* * *

_Author's Note: Um, wow, a lot of heavy stuff in this chapter. So anyone who cares a lot about French history will notice that I have been tweaking some dates. Baby Sophie Hélène died of tuberculosis in June of 1787, not in the wintertime, but the winter setting is more appropriate to my story. There was no suspicion of foul play in her death. However, there has been some speculation that Louis Charles, Xavier's younger brother, was in fact the son of Marie Antoinette's maybe-lover Count Axel von Ferson. Again, I took some liberties. It is also documented that Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI had a cordial and friendly, if not particularly passionate, relationship. I altered this to give Xavier a very unhappy home situation and myriad reasons for him to want to become a bully at a very young age. Apologies to Marie and Louis; normally I sympathize with them as for the most part they were just the wrong people for their unfortunately hereditary jobs._

_Updates for this piece will come very slowly for a number of reasons. It has taken me a few months of thinking and research to get this far, and it will take still more for most of the upcoming chapters as well. It also doesn't help that at this point I don't particularly enjoy spending a lot of time with these characters so I find all kinds of excuses to do other things._


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Disclaimer: Beauty and the Beast belongs to Disney, not me._

_The Palais de Versailles, Anno Domini 1789. Late spring._

"Excellent, young prince, excellent."

Xavier grinned at the praise from his mentor. In the nearly two years he had known her, he had never asked her real name. She had simply asked him to call her "Enchantress" or "Madame".

They were out in one of the more secluded areas of the palace grounds. Xavier was practicing his transformation, as usual. Madame had not lied to him. It was very hard work, and even after this much time he could still only control some of what happened. She had also told the truth that he did not turn into a wolf. When fully transformed, he was a monster. A Beast. Covered in brown fur and built like a bear, but with clawed hands instead of flat paws. He found his face nerve-wracking to look at in this state, because it hovered somewhere between animal and human. It was vaguely human-proportioned with the mouth and nose and eyes in the right places, but the mouth was shaped like and snout and full of sharp teeth, and the nose was hideously arched. He even had short bull's horns and ears that could rotate like a horse's to pick up the slightest noise. His blue eyes always remained the same no matter what form he wore.

However, he had only managed the full transformation to this form twice. Most of the time he got stuck partway there and had to change back. Madame didn't encourage him to fully transform, anyway. She said he wasn't ready yet and that it was more important to learn to control the change by only changing his hands, or his feet, or his ears. She made him practice relentlessly whenever he could slip away to take a lesson with her.

She was always waiting for him whenever he had gone five minutes or so without seeing another person.

Xavier's life hadn't suddenly become perfect since he'd met Madame. His parents were much less affectionate than they had been before Sophie's death. The Queen in particular had gone very quiet since Count von Fersen had left court—though he had not been banished as the King initially demanded. Xavier supposed he would be allowed back eventually but in the meantime his mother was markedly unhappy.

Both of his parents were increasingly tense and sharp with all three of their remaining children. It seemed things were not going well in the rest of France. Xavier heard rumors that people were rioting because there was no bread. Winter this year had been particularly cold. From his tutors he knew that this meant crops would not grow well this year, either. For some reason—and this was something he couldn't quite put his finger on—the peasantry blamed his mother the Queen for all of it.

He explained the situation to Madame. "Ah," she said sagely. "The people dislike your mother for two reasons. One is that she is Austrian. She was a foreign princess before she married your father and some still do not trust her."

"My cousins say Austria is a backwater country with no culture at their court," Xavier remembered.

"Hmm," Madame replied noncommittally.

"What is the second reason the commoners dislike my mother?"

"They say she spends too much money on clothes and decorations and parties," said Madame, "When that money could go to helping the peasantry in their time of need."

This was true. Xavier had no idea how much things cost, but his mother did like to give lavish balls and wear beautiful silks and jewels. But in that, she was no different than any other courtier at Versailles. It didn't seem to be fair of the peasants to single his mother out.

"Maybe if all the nobility spent less on clothes and decorations and parties and instead put the money to buying bread for the peasantry, then the people would no longer be angry."

Madame snorted. "That will never happen. People at Versailles are too fond of their pleasures and their privileges. Try suggesting such a thing to your father the King. You will see what I say is true."

Xavier had done so, and Madame had been proven right, as she always was. The King had looked sad when Xavier mentioned giving the money that might have been spent on even one ball to the poor. "It is a fine thought, son. But the court has a certain way of doing things. Even I cannot order them to change their ways overnight." He patted Xavier's head. He seemed to have forgotten his accusations the night of baby Sophie's death that Xavier was not his son. "There will always be poor people. And they will always be angry at the rich. Don't worry. My ministers tell me we need tax reforms. I have promised to call the Estates General so that they can discuss the matter. All will be well in the end, and things will go back to normal in the country soon."

Xavier stared after him in disbelief as he waddled away. The King could do whatever he wanted. If he ordered something, the courtiers would have to do it whether they liked it or not. So the King must not really want things to change, Xavier concluded. Or at least not much.

"You see?" Madame said when he reported all of this to her.

"What is the Estates General?" asked Xavier. "Everyone's been talking about it for months but they're all too busy to explain."

"They are representatives of the three great estates: the nobility, the clergy, and the commoners," Madame explained. "They haven't been called together for nearly two hundred years."

"Things must really be bad for them to have been summoned, then."

"Indeed. These next few months will determine the fate of many, including you, young prince. You must be ready to face whatever happens."

"Do _you_ know what will happen?" Xavier asked. He had sometimes suspected in the past few years that she could see the future but hadn't been quite brave enough to ask her outright.

"No," she said bluntly. "I have some ideas about what _might_ happen. Things change, and quickly, especially in a time like this when so many different forces and personalities are in play. That is why it is important that you listen to me and learn your lessons. You must be prepared."

"Could you teach me to see the future as you do? Then I'd—"

"No!" she interrupted firmly, almost harshly. Then she softened her voice. "No, my prince. That kind of power you have to be born with. I can't give it to you the way I gave you your other gifts."

It must be like being born royal, Xavier decided. Either you were, or you weren't. This was an easy concept to accept. He hadn't asked her any more about it. Now, at their practice today, the Estates General were only days away from meeting.

"That's enough for today," the Enchantress said. They began to go their separate ways, he back to the palace and she to wherever she went when not teaching him.

"Xavier," she called. He turned back, startled. She was looking very solemn. "Be careful."

He nodded, thinking, _what an odd thing to say. No one can harm the _dauphin.

Xavier made it back to the palace undetected. One good thing about having accidentally demonstrated his powers to Charles Ferdinand all that time ago was that his cousin virtually left him alone now. In fact, the bigger boy avoided the _dauphin_ when at all possible. Xavier sometimes caught him watching out of the corner of his eyes. Xavier enjoyed the nervous look in his cousin's eyes. It was satisfying after so many years of relentless bullying.

Thus, when he entered the nursery, he was surprised to find the bigger boy did not leave the room the moment he came in as had become his habit.

"What are you doing in here?" Xavier demanded. "Get out."

"Where have you been?" the bigger boy retorted.

"Out on the grounds. Why do you care all of a sudden?"

"Practicing your witchcraft?"

Xavier froze. "How dare—"

"Don't play innocent. How else could you have changed so much that day your sister died? Don't think people haven't noticed you suddenly became healthy that day and haven't been sick since. I'm just the only one who knows the truth."

_Does he know about Madame? Has he been following me? _Xavier wondered. _He can't. Madame wouldn't appear if she knew he was around._

He took refuge in the cold arrogance of a prince. "You're accusing _me_ of witchcraft, Charles Ferdinand? Witches are women. Everyone knows that."

"How did you get better? Was it coincidence it happened on the same day the baby princess died?"

"What are you saying?" whispered Xavier.

"You killed your sister in some pagan ritual and used magic to make yourself healthy. I bet you even drank her blood."

Red shards began to appear in Xavier's vision. He didn't think he'd ever been this angry or this shocked. "I _never_—"

"Are you denying you killed her?"

Xavier clenched his shaking hands into fists. "No."

"You admit it!" Charles Ferdinand crowed triumphantly. "You—"

He never finished the sentence. Xavier charged him without thinking. He lost any shred of control he'd had. By the time he reached the bigger boy he knew he'd at least partially transformed without the slightest idea which parts of him were still human and which were Beast. He had enough bulk to knock Charles Ferdinand to the floor, that much he did know. He tackled the older boy and pinned him to the floor, sitting on top of his chest and holding down his arms with hands that were rapidly becoming paws. He looked down into Charles Ferdinand's face and snarled an animal's snarl through animal fangs.

Charles Ferdinand screamed. As a human, the high-pitched sound of abject terror would have pleased Xavier. Now, the sound rang against his sensitive ears, disorienting him for a moment. Charles Ferdinand managed to shake him off. Xavier leapt up, ready to pounce again.

A gasp from behind him made him freeze. He spun in a half-crouch.

His sister Marie Thérèse stood in one door to the nursery. In another stood the King and Queen, and several servants.

Xavier collapsed to the floor, slammed back into human form by sheer shock. His clothes were in tatters, however. There was no pretending everything was normal and he and Charles Ferdinand had been fighting like normal boys.

He had changed in front of all of them.

Marie Antoinette was white as a sheet, her famous milky complexion deadly pale. One hand was pressed to her mouth. The King was visibly quivering, made more obvious by the movement of his rolls of fat. The servant women were all clutching each other. Marie Thérèse had both hands squeezed hard against her lips, clearly stifling a scream. The utter horror on her face was the most painful for Xavier to see. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream himself. Instinct told him to bolt, but all the exits were covered.

Charles Ferdinand scrambled backwards like a crab away from Xavier. His vest was visibly ripped from Xavier's claws, though there was no blood.

"Demon," he whispered.

"Monster," muttered one of the servant women, a quiver in her voice.

"_Beast._"

That was the King.

And Xavier knew he was doomed.

* * *

_Author's Note: Dun dun duuuuun!_

_Alright, so those of you who know your French Revolution timeline should have a good guess about what's coming next. Those of you who don't...go do some reading. It won't hurt to learn a thing or two if you're that anxious for spoilers._

_It's been hard to write the beginnings of the French Revolution from a child's perspective because he doesn't really get any of it. So there is a lot more going on in the background that I know about but can't write because Xavier simply doesn't have a reason to be privy to these great historical events. The best I can do is hint, and even then the hints are simplistic, like Madame's explanation as to why the common people hated Marie Antoinette. The reasons were both more and less complicated than the ones Madame gives. And the Revolution isn't really the point of the story anyway. We'll be moving beyond it fairly soon as events start to spiral out of control._

_Again, no promises on speed of update._

_SamoaPhoenix9_


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_Disclaimer: Disney owns Beauty and the Beast. I do not._

Xavier sat huddled on his bed in the nursery. He had been in here for a full day. After accidentally revealing himself, no one had wanted to come near him. Not even his sister. They had all backed out of the room and locked the doors. Xavier discovered when he tried to break through them that furniture or something else heavy had been piled against the doors to prevent his escape.

How could he have been so foolish? In hindsight, it was obvious Charles Ferdinand had planned some sort of trap, even if he'd gotten unexpected results in Xavier's transformation. That was why the bigger boy had been silent for so long. He'd been watching, planning, for this moment. It couldn't be coincidence that so many people, especially the King and Queen who were so rarely together, had all come into the nursery at the same time. Xavier wondered what Charles Ferdinand had said to get them to appear. He wondered if he'd ever find out.

Being the _dauphin_ wouldn't protect him now. If they believed Charles Ferdinand, they would think he was a demon, and not the son of the King. If they didn't…well, how could he explain? He could never tell about the Enchantress.

His stomach rumbled. He'd never gone so long without food. Distantly he felt the pain in his abdomen, but he was so worried about what was going to happen to him that even if his favorite foods were sitting before him he doubted he'd be able to manage a bite.

Another night passed. Finally, on the morning of the second day, he heard distant thuds and scrapes. The furniture around one of the doors was being pushed back. Someone was coming in!

Dizzy with hunger and thirst, Xavier struggled to his feet.

More scraping around the doors, then the rattling of the lock. The handle turned.

A spear poked its cautious head in. Equally cautious behind it came a palace guard. When he saw the prince standing in the middle of the room, he watched for a second longer to make sure no evil magic was forthcoming, then made a gesture behind him that Xavier couldn't see.

The door swung open to reveal another guard, this one an archer with bow pointed straight at Xavier. The boy shuddered, looking down that shaft. The man would shoot, prince or no. Xavier saw it in his eyes. He struggled to hold in the urge to transform and make a run for it; try to get past these guards before they realized what was happening. He knew it was foolish. He was far too weak to manage anything but perhaps slightly longer fingernails at the moment. He'd get maybe a step or two before he was brought down like a wild stag in the forest. Nobody would even mourn him. They'd think they'd killed a servant of Satan, not a young boy.

Into the room stepped the King, closely followed by a middle-aged man in a white robe: a priest. Xavier wondered briefly what he was there for. Last rites for whatever was left of the young prince's soul once he was dead?

They all looked at each other for several long moments. The King's face actually softened a little when Xavier met his eyes with his own miserable blue ones. Then Louis XVI's expression went cold again. He gestured to the priest, who took a nervous step, almost a stumble, forward.

"Demon in the form of our beloved _dauphin_," he began in a quick voice, as if he wanted the words expelled as fast as possible. Xavier shot his father an incredulous look but the King remained expressionless.

The priest was still speaking. "Recite for us the words of the prayer our Blessed Lord taught us to say when he preached on the mountainside."

"What?" croaked Xavier, voice rusty from not using it for nearly two days. He hadn't been expecting this.

"Recite the words." This time it was the King who commanded. "If you cannot or will not, the guards have orders to strike without mercy."

Xavier trembled from head to foot. This was too much. His already powerful lightheadedness threatened to overwhelm him. Why were they asking this, of all things? Certainly he knew the words; he'd been reciting them since he could speak. Yet the threat trembled in the air all around like a tangible thing. If he made a mistake, he was dead.

"Do you wish me to say them in Latin or in French, your majesty?" he managed, struggling to keep his voice level.

The King appeared taken aback by the question. It was the priest who answered. "In Latin, if you please."

Xavier took a deep breath. He pictured all of the words in his mind before he began to speak. "_Pater noster, qui es in caelis_…"

He recited the entire thing without a single hesitation, and without taking his eyes from his father. The familiar rhythm of the words gave him some courage.

When he finished, the King and the priest exchanged glances. The King gestured to the priest again. From beneath his white robes the man produced a thick gilded book: a Bible. He flipped through it until he found the exact page he wanted. Then, approaching the young prince cautiously, he held out the enormous tome.

Xavier stared at it. "Take it, and begin reading at the top of the page," the man demanded gruffly. Xavier obeyed, though he staggered once he bore the book's full weight. He managed not to drop it, but it was a near thing. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the guards tensing at his struggles.

Using muscles he didn't know he possessed, he hefted the book, propping it against his rumbling stomach so that his arms didn't bear all the weight. He looked to the top of the page.

A fairly easy verse; one of the Psalms. Xavier read the entire thing until he reached the end of the page. He didn't dare try to turn to the next page; he knew for certain he'd drop the book.

He looked up beseechingly at the priest who still stood near. The priest turned to the King with a slight nod. The King nodded in return. The priest took the book from Xavier and the boy collapsed to his knees.

Louis and the priest were still staring at him. At last, the King said, "It seems that you are not a demon. I have been told by respected priests of the Church that a true demon or a witch sent from the Evil One could not recite words sacred to our Lord without making a mistake. I was also told such a creature could not bear to handle His Holy Word, or to read from its pages. You have passed these tests. Yet no human could transform himself into a monster and back into a boy without some kind of demonic influence. Son, did you sacrifice your infant sister to make such a bargain?"

"No!" Xavier cried, his voice as strong as he could make it. "I'd never do such a thing. I might have despised my sister, but I did not wish her dead."

"But did you make such a bargain? A bargain for the power to transform yourself into an abomination?" the priest demanded, leaning forward to loom over the boy on the floor.

Xavier stuck out his chin. "I made a bargain for strength."

All four men in the room recoiled visibly. To Xavier's surprise, the priest flung himself to his knees, gripping the boy's forearms and staring straight into his face. Xavier turned his face slightly from the scent of the man's last meal. Fish, if he wasn't mistaken.

"Take back the bargain! Renounce the evil this minute, or the demon you bargained with will have your soul. And through yours, France's!" the priest cried.

Xavier struggled and squirmed. To renounce the Enchantress meant going back to his weak, crippled body. It meant Charles Ferdinand could do whatever he liked to him again, and Xavier would be helpless. His body might even give out before he had the chance to grow up.

"Louis," the King said, and Xavier stilled. His father rarely used his given name. "If you renounce your bargain, I will see to it this entire incident is forgotten. All will be as it was. I promise."

For a long moment, Xavier was tempted. To have things go back to the way they had been before baby Sophie's death sounded wonderful…but no. He shook his head. Some things couldn't be changed. Sophie was still dead. Everyone who had seen him transform wouldn't be able to forget. Marie Thérèse would never look at him without the horror in her eyes from the last time he'd seen her. She would always hate and fear him, of that he was certain. He couldn't bear to live in a world that would never accept him again.

Or perhaps he simply wanted the man with the fish breath away from him as quickly as possible.

Eyes blazing, he glared around the priest at his father. "Don't make promises you can't keep," he snapped.

The room went very still. The priest drew back, taking his hands from Xavier's arms. Xavier felt the bruises he would have very soon.

"Then you leave me no choice." The King drew up his enormous frame. "For the good of France I cannot permit one who has made an unholy bargain with a demon to follow me onto the throne. Louis Joseph Xavier, you are hereby disowned from the House of Bourbon. The title of _dauphin_ passes to your younger brother Louis Charles."

"Are you going to have me killed?" Xavier asked, the fire going out of him. In his fury at having to make the choice he'd forgotten death was a very real possibility.

The King seemed to hesitate. "I cannot," he finally said. "You are still my son. I could not look the Queen in the eye and tell her I had ordered such a thing, even if it were done secretly. But you cannot remain here. You are to be exiled, far from Versailles. Your mother inherited a castle in Lorraine from her late father that I believe will suit. It will be prepared, and you will leave tonight."

Xavier did not dare to protest, though the thought of leaving Versailles terrified him. The King waddled out without another glance, followed closely by the white-robed priest. Last of all left the two guards, weapons still pointed at him. Xavier heard the door latch and the furniture pushed back into place. He was alone again with his fears.

Lorraine. Xavier liked maps, so he knew exactly where he was being sent. Lorraine was a territory between France and Austria and had been passed back and forth between the two nations frequently. France held it now, but his grandfather on his mother's side had once been a prince of Lorraine before he married the Empress of Austria and became Emperor. This castle would be in that border territory that was not quite French, not quite German. As far from the French capitol in Paris as it was from the Austrian capitol of Vienna.

Truly an exile in the wilderness.

-0-0-0-

As promised, the King's men came for him that evening. Neither King nor Queen appeared to see him off. He was given a cloak with a hood to conceal his face before he was led unceremoniously through the halls. Xavier glanced around the darkened walls and antechambers. The last time, he thought.

They arrived in a courtyard where a nondescript, closed black carriage was waiting. The guards didn't exactly force him inside, but from the way they held themselves Xavier could tell they were ready to do so if necessary. He was still too weak to transform and try to escape, so he climbed into the carriage without protest.

One of the guards passed him a cotton bag; a glance inside showed him it held simple food such as bread, cheese and apples, and a canteen of something that sloshed faintly. It took all his strength not to begin gobbling down the longed-for sustenance at once.

"There isn't enough food in here to keep me all the way to Lorraine," he remarked.

"You will be stopping at various inns along the way, and you will be guarded every moment," the guard who had handed him the food said. "You are no longer the _dauphin_, though you are still of royal blood and will be treated as such. No harm will come to you—unless you try to escape." He let the threat hang. Xavier didn't need to ask what would happen should he be foolish enough to try to get away. He would be caught and killed without mercy, hunted down like the animal they believed him to be.

"What happens when I reach Lorraine?" he asked instead.

"You are to be treated as the lord of the local lands. A _minor_ lord only, not a prince. You are forbidden to use your former title or reveal your true parentage on pain of death. But you will have all the rights accorded local nobility—access to the lands surrounding the castle and control over the local peasantry. It is the King's hope that you will be comfortable." The guard hesitated. "His majesty wanted me to tell you that after tonight, you may never return here. Unless you renounce your promise to the demon now, you will be dead to all the people of France."

"_Dead_?" Xavier repeated. This made no sense. Why would his father go to the trouble of pretending to exile him only to have him killed?

The guard seemed to sense his confusion. "The story has already been given out that you are gravely ill. A relapse of your childhood weakness. Within a few days, it will be announced that you died of your sickness. The nation will mourn, and then your brother will be the heir. Even if you change your mind years hence, you may never return. The King has offered this one last chance before there is no turning back. What is your decision?"

Again Xavier wavered, as he had when the question had first been put to him. _Never_ return? _Never_ become King, as he had always believed was his birthright? But when he weighed that against returning to being a crippled weakling, possibly never living to grow up, there was no choice to be made.

He turned to face forward in the carriage seat and crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest.

"Very well," the guard said. "I shall convey your choice to his majesty. Drive on!" He slammed the carriage door shut. The driver snapped the reins over the team of horses. Levering himself up so that he could see out the carriage window, Xavier saw other guards on horseback urge their mounts forward. They spread out around the carriage as it began to move. The guard had not been lying. There would be no escape until he reached his destination.

He turned his attention to the food in the bag. For a time, he could only think about filling his stomach.

Once he no longer felt dizzy with hunger, he sat back and closed his eyes. He should try to sleep.

"Foolish boy."

Xavier leapt so hard he almost banged his head on the roof of the carriage. The voice had come from inside the carriage with him, but he had been sure a moment ago he had been alone.

The person sitting on the opposite seat leaned forward, and he could see by the little moonlight through the window that it was the Enchantress.

"It wasn't my fault," he protested. "Charles Ferdinand tricked me."

"You lost your temper. Because you could not control yourself, as I have always told you to do, everything is nearly ruined. If this had not occurred, you would have been King." She chuckled softly. "King over a crumbling nation, true, but King nonetheless. With my help, after much bloodshed, you would have prevailed."

"Crumbling?"

"This country teeters on the very edge of revolution, boy. This trouble about the taxes is more important than you have perhaps been led to believe," she said impatiently.

"Revolution?" Xavier felt stupid. "Like in America? But that was colonies rebelling against the English King who was taxing them unfairly…" he trailed off, realizing what he was saying. "But that couldn't happen _here_. A people can't rebel against their own King who lives among them. The American colonists got away with it because they were so far from London. Everyone at court says so."

"You know little of such matters," the Enchantress said. "It can happen as easily to a King who lives among his people to a King who resides far away. Indeed, I am surprised it has taken this long for others to have heard the American colonists' battle cry for freedom. As it is, I have had to remake my plans entirely. All is not lost, though through no little effort on my part."

"Plans?" Xavier asked, but she ignored him.

"Fear not, I shall not renege on our deal. I may not. You will grow up strong and healthy in exile. Indeed, it will be far easier for you to practice your transformation where there are so few people likely to…intrude. I shall meet you at your new residence in Lorraine when you arrive. There are some things back at the capitol I must see to in the meantime. The distraction of your 'illness' has in fact proved quite timely."

She seemed to collapse in on herself. Within moments it was not a woman who sat on the opposite seat, but a raven. It bounced lightly to the window, then took off. In the darkness, none of the guards riding nearby noticed the inky bird.

Xavier resigned himself to the tedium of travel. At least he would have time before they arrived to regain his strength from his time without food. He wondered, as the days passed, what 'things' the Enchantress was seeing to in Paris, and what it had to do with the 'distraction' he'd caused. But most of all, he wondered what his new life as a 'minor lord' in a far province would be like.

* * *

_Author's Note: This story is still coming slowly. I don't dislike it, per se, on the contrary I like where it's going to eventually end up. However, getting there is proving to be difficult because it requires really sitting down for long periods of time and getting inside these characters' heads. Which is not particularly pleasant, as there are no 'good' characters to balance out the bad ones right now._

_The test Xavier is put through is based on some ideas behind witch trials: a witch or someone sworn to the Devil would be unable to perform certain tasks that would mark them. Sometimes these had to do with sacred objects, sometimes not (like the infamous "water test" where a purported witch would be bound hand and foot and flung into a large body of water. If she floated, she was a witch because the water had rejected her, or some other leftover superstitious explanation, and she was hung or burned at the stake. If she sank, she drowned but she wasn't a witch and thus had gone to Heaven innocent. Yeah. Not really a fair test, is it? There were other 'tests' just as rigged and just as painful involving things like needles and red-hot iron bars. Compared to them, Xavier's isn't so bad). Witch trials had largely died out in the century before this story is set, but some of the lore would have stuck around._


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Disclaimer: I do not own Beauty and the Beast or any of its characters._

_In a small village in Lorraine, Anno Domini 1846_

Belle slipped out of her house just as the sun was cresting the horizon. Her father was still sleeping in the basement with his latest invention, which he'd been struggling to finish in time for the local fair. Belle planned to surprise him with fresh fruit and strudel for breakfast. She also needed to stop in the village's tiny bookshop. Perhaps the newest shipment had come in.

With the sun warm on her back she made her way into the village proper. As always, she glanced over her shoulder just before her feet hit the cobblestones. And as always, there was nothing there but her house and the woods beyond it. Gold light gilded it all and the frost in the grass sparkled like tiny crystals. Belle smiled. She might not live in a palace, but who would want to when they had a sight like this greet them every morning?

The main avenue of the village before her was mostly empty. All along it, however, she could see shopkeepers beginning to open their shutters and set out samples of their wares. They waved to Belle and called "Bonjour!" or "Guten tag!" in friendly voices. She returned the greetings. This close to the German border, everyone spoke a combination of both French and German as it suited them, learned from their parents and grandparents. There were even a rare few who spoke some Italian. Belle spoke German a little less well than most, having not spent her whole life so close to the border. She and her father had come to Lorraine when she was eight, after her mother died. Several village boys had delighted in teasing and discussing her in German when they realized she did not speak their particular dialect, to her hurt and frustration.

That was how Belle had met the village bookseller. He had made a deal with her when he caught the boys teasing her in front of his shop: he would teach her to speak German as it was spoken in the village in exchange for Belle's help in the bookshop when his shipments came in. The deal still held over a decade later, though these days Belle didn't need help communicating. Now she was allowed to borrow whatever books she chose in exchange for unloading and sorting new shipments.

The boys had also stopped teasing her long ago. Now they were grown into men; many of them were married, engaged, or looking for wives. In fact, several of them—and their wives, friends of Belle's—were the ones waving to her from shop windows.

Belle came first to the _patisserie_. "Good morning, Belle," greeted the baker. "What will it be today?"

"Oh…some apple strudel, please," Belle said after eyeing the fresh pastries and rolls he'd just laid out for inspection. "And four baguettes."

The baker raised an eyebrow. "Apple strudel, then? What's the occasion?"

"Papa's nearly done with his latest invention. I want to surprise him."

"Ah, good for you, Belle. Looking out for your papa. I'm sure he'll be sorry to lose you when you marry. You'll make some lucky fellow a good wife." He winked at her. "I look forward to the day you come asking for your wedding cake."

Belle smiled. "I hope it's not too far off."

"What, he hasn't asked you yet? He'd better hurry and take the most beautiful girl in town off the market."

"Thank you," Belle said, blushing. "He's been hinting he wants to court me officially. That's a long way from a marriage proposal."

"Not if I know our Gaston, it isn't," the baker said confidently. "You and I both know he's not the patient type. He won't be 'officially' courting you for a week before he's at the goldsmith across the way buying the ring. He's been waiting long enough to marry and settle down."

Belle knew this was true. It made her a little uneasy. He had been one of her tormentors when they were younger, but he'd grown up into unquestionably the most handsome, charismatic man in town. He also owned the most land of anyone in the village. Though a few years Belle's senior, he wasn't married yet. His mother had been a veritable dragon of a woman. No girl in the entire village was good enough for her handsome, incredible Gaston. So Gaston had dared court no girl openly, though he had occasionally stolen kisses from a few girls, including Belle herself. Only once his mother died a few months ago had Gaston been free to pursue his own interests and seek a wife. Out of the whole village, he seemed to have cast his eye on Belle.

Belle wasn't sure how she felt about it. She liked Gaston well enough now that he was grown past childish antics. Certainly he was well off and he would take excellent care of her. She would never want for anything if she were his wife. He was handsome and strong. Most of the other unmarried village girls swooned whenever he passed. They didn't understand Belle's hesitation. Several had already told her straight out that if she didn't want him, she should tell him, so that he could move on to someone who _did_ want him. _They_ would already have the ring on their finger by now, were they in her place.

Did she love Gaston? If she didn't, _could_ she, someday? She had every reason in the world to say yes when he asked for her hand. But did she want to spend the rest of her life with him, when she wasn't sure he was the one for her?

No one would understand if she refused him, not even her own father. What more could a girl want? They would think she was crazier than they already did, reading those silly stories of love and adventure instead of good, pious works by Christian philosophers.

Without realizing it she had reached the bookshop. She ducked her head to enter and the little bell her father had installed rang cheerfully.

"Ah, Belle!" Monsieur Cuir emerged from the back room, dusting his hands off.

"Good morning. I came to return _Kinder- und Hausmärchen_ again."

"I am sure Herren Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm would be pleased to know how much you enjoy their work. You should write them a letter."

"Maybe someday," Belle agreed. "Sometimes I wish…no, it's silly."

"What? Tell me."

"Sometimes I wish I could write and ask if they need an assistant. It must not be easy collecting and recording all those tales."

"Hmm." Monsieur Cuir stroked his short gray beard. "With Gaston fixing to propose to you soon, you're dreaming of leaving?"

"When you put it that way, you make me sound so awful." Belle sighed and sank into a seat. The elderly bookseller was her dearest friend. She talked to him about many things she couldn't even tell her father. "Ought I to be leading him on, like some of the girls are saying, if I'm not sure?"

"Belle, dear, that's the purpose of courting," said Monsieur Cuir with a soft chuckle. "To find out if it's meant to be _before_ you marry and realize you made a mistake. If you're not sure, you shouldn't say yes until you absolutely are."

"Truthfully, I want what the heroines in these books have." Belle waved at the shelves around them. "The sure conviction that I've had found the person I'm meant to pass the rest of my days with. The companion of my life. Like Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. Even the princesses in these old fairy tales know they've found the right one at the end of their little stories."

"What are your hesitations concerning Gaston?" The bookseller leaned on his desk with one hand.

"I'm not sure. He's been nice enough to me ever since I told him and that gang of his off in German when we were young."

"That was something to see," chuckled Monsieur Cuir. "I was as proud of you as any teacher could be. But he's reformed a bit since then, of course."

"Of course. Now he's a perfectly respectable man looking to take a wife so that she can run the household, give him children, and so on. Every girl expects to do those things eventually."

"I'm still not seeing the problem. Are you afraid because marriage is a big step?"

"Not exactly. I just…I don't know. When we're together, there's no…passion. There's no spark. There's no sense that I would literally do anything he asked to make him happy or that he would do that for me. Is that something that grows over time, or should I be feeling it now?"

"Only you can answer that question, Belle. Every couple is different, regardless of how similarly courtship appears to go here in the village. It all depends on what you decide you can live with…or live without."

That reminded Belle of another couple in _Pride and Prejudice_, Mr. Collins and Lizzie Bennett's friend Charlotte Lucas. Charlotte had elected to marry for the promise of a comfortable home and not because she felt anything for her prospective husband. She ended up living what seemed to Belle a very lonely life, tending to domestic duties and avoiding her obsequious husband as much as possible.

"I like Gaston. I didn't mind kissing him. It was pleasant enough. I just…can't quite see myself married to him," she finally announced.

"Allow him to court you, then," the bookseller advised. "Get to know him better. If you still can't picture yourself married to him after the courtship's begun in earnest, then decide if you want to break it off. The other girls are right about that. If you don't want him, there are plenty of others eager to try for your place. Don't worry about what everyone will say. They'll gossip about it for a few days if you turn him down, maybe say some unkind things to you about thinking too highly of yourself, but they'll get over it. Especially when you find the man you _will_ marry and everyone can see the difference. What do you think?"

Belle smiled. "I think you always give good advice. But what should I say if someone does say something unkind?"

"Say they're perfectly right, you _are_ far too good for Gaston. Say you're saving yourself for Lord Garoux."

"Lord Garoux?" sputtered Belle. "Maybe I should say something more plausible, like King Louis-Philippe himself!"

They both shared a chuckle. Lord Garoux was the village mystery, a benevolent dark cloud on the distant horizon. He was the local lord by title, but hardly anyone had ever seen him. No one even knew for sure how old he was, or how he had inherited his title, or even how long he had been living in his castle, which lay most of a day's ride away through a thick forest. He had certainly been living there when Belle and her father arrived in the village. There were so many rumors about him, especially amongst the children, that Belle had wondered if he was real or just a story the boys were telling her to scare her.

But he was real enough; some of the adults of the village claimed to have seen him, and declared he looked like any other man, albeit better dressed. There were some pretty gruesome stories about his predecessors, the ones who had lived in the castle during France's various revolutions. There had certainly been some very excruciating, very public executions of villagers who had thought it would be easy to turn the local lord out of his castle and loot its treasures for themselves. So there the lord's family had remained, through republics, through Emperor Napoleon, through overthrows, through wars. Somehow those who ruled the local area from the castle had never seemed to be deposed or replaced no matter what regime was in power in Paris. Belle had been shocked when she arrived that most of the villagers had no idea who their current ruler _was_. She had never been able to get a straight story of local history out of anyone she asked, not even the bookseller. For some reason in this small corner of the world it hardly seemed to matter.

"Why not Lord Garoux? You told me your mother had noble blood, didn't she?" teased Monsieur Cuir.

"She was the sixth daughter of a former lord who had nothing left but the title, like most of the old French nobility that escaped the Revolution. My grandfather was glad enough to marry her off to a merchant's son. It was one less spinster daughter to provide for. At least, that's what Mama always told me."

"Your parents loved each other, surely?"

Belle smiled, picturing happier days. "Yes, they did. Maybe that's why I'm so unsure with Gaston. I know the real thing is possible, and not just in stories."

"I know you'll make the decision that's best for you, Belle," Monsieur Cuir said, patting her hand. "And for Gaston. Now, enough. Your papa will be waiting for his breakfast."

"Oh! I forgot!" cried Belle. She leapt up and started for the door. "If there's no shipment for me to help with, then I'd best be heading back."

"Not since yesterday!" chuckled the bookseller. Belle flushed. She _had _forgotten the latest shipment had only come in the day before. Her mind had been preoccupied with what to do about Gaston.

"Did you want to borrow another book before you go?"

"Oh, yes. Hmm…" she rapidly scanned the shelves and seized one with a slightly battered blue leather cover. "This one."

Monsieur Cuir glanced at the title. "_La Belle et La Bête_? Again?"

"It's my favorite when I have a troubled mind. I just need to think about something else for awhile."

"If you like it that much, you should keep it. No charge."

"Oh, but—"

"It's not very likely to find another home in this village anyway. The fairy tales and so on are harder to sell than I'd like. Plenty of people still subscribe to Mme. Avenant's notions that stories about magic and fairies and so on are the work of the Devil. I suspect her hold on the village will last for some time even though she's passed on now."

Belle nodded. He had a point. Mme. Avenant, Gaston's mother, had been a very pious and superstitious woman. Combined with her domineering ways, she had wielded a great deal of influence over how many villagers thought about matters of religion. She had seen devils and evil everywhere, even in things Belle was fairly certain were harmless like dancing on Sundays. Gaston, tall and strong as he was, was lucky his mother had never found out about the kisses he'd stolen. He would have turned up with bruises all over as Mme. Avenant tried to beat the devils out of him.

Belle felt a little sorry for Gaston, growing up with a mama like that. Her parents had been stern with her when necessary, but they'd also never treated her as if she were going to sprout horns if they didn't keep watching her head every few minutes. They'd been happy to discuss any questions she had, including questions about God and Jesus and Heaven and all the other things small children hear in mass and are curious about.

"I'll give this book a good home," she said aloud. "And now I really should be going."

"Goodbye for now, Belle,"

"See you soon. And thank you very much!"

Tucking her book into her basket with the strudel, Belle danced out the door.

* * *

_Author's Note: And here we are introduced to Belle. No, the new date is not a mistake, though surely after the previous chapter you are not surprised at the location._

_About Gaston: I was tired of writing him as simply the bad guy who wants Belle. It was one of my biggest regrets about Kissed By a Rose, that because of the narrative structure I chose I could only hint at his motivations. But this is also not a story about him (if you want that, TrudiRose and DeathlyMarshmallows write excellent ones). So I am endeavoring to give him some semblance of backstory without moving the focus of the story I'm trying to tell. Gaston is more complicated than the general run of Disney villain—though they all deserve some form of legitimate motivation besides being evil because the story demands conflict._

_I participated in Camp NaNoWriMo in April, so the next few chapters are actually finished and I will be updating in a timely manner as I edit them after some time away._

_SamoaPhoenix9_


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Disclaimer: No, I do not own Beauty and the Beast._

The sun was much higher as Belle made her way back through the village. There were also many more people out and about. Some of them wanted to stop and chat with Belle, but she stayed only as long as was polite, saying she had to get home with her father's breakfast. She even saw Gaston at a distance. They waved to one another, but he was caught up negotiating with the butcher, probably about the hogs he wanted to slaughter. He'd talked of nothing else the last time he and Belle had met in the village. She had frankly been bored, but out of politeness she'd listened to everything he'd had to say on the subject.

Belle was nearly to the edge of the village when screams and sobs of horror rang out, coming closer and closer. Everyone seemed to freeze, listening to the noise. Belle's heart sank. All around her she could see shoulders tense, or slump, as the realized what the screaming meant. It was all too familiar in this village.

The Eistier had struck again.

The Eistier—the winter monster—the frozen beast—the ice wolf. It had many names, but Eistier was the one that most people in the village used when they spoke about it at all. It only struck at night in the winter, when the weather was cold and most people were indoors. Belle frowned and glanced at the colored leaves. True, there had been frost that morning—she had noticed it sparkling in the sun as she left the cottage. But the first snows had yet to fall, and probably would not for a few weeks at least. This was very early for the Eistier.

Not a good sign. Not at all. Belle shivered.

The screaming drew closer. Three hysterical girls—the blonde identical triplets who were shepherdesses–came bolting into the town proper. Their dresses were streaked with blood and tears streamed down their faces.

"The Eistier," sobbed Bernadette, confirming everyone's fears. "It attacked our flock last night."

Their father pushed his way through the crowd. "How many, girls?" he gasped.

"Three, Papa," said Annette.

"Two were dead when we arrived," added Colette. "They'd been torn to pieces and eaten, right down to the bone. The third…we tried to save her, but…" She trailed off, looking dismally at her blood-smeared hands. "We're so sorry, Papa. We did our best."

A small crowd of older women and young men surged forward to comfort the triplets. Practically, it was the women who managed to move the group to the village well to wash the blood away as much as possible. A few younger girls who were friends with the triplets ran to their house to fetch them some clean clothes to change into.

The men gathered around the triplets' father, Monsieur Férmin. Their faces were all grim. Belle, still somewhat paralyzed while she tried to absorb what had happened, heard them saying things like "Too early…" "We'll lose entire herds at this rate," and, most frequently, "But what is to be done?"

What indeed? No one had ever seen the monster clearly, though more people had caught glimpses of it than of the fabled Lord Garoux. All anyone knew was that it was large—far bigger than a man, though whether it was the size of a bear, the size of a draft horse or even larger was a subject of debate. It had dark fur and eyes that gleamed an odd blue in torch or lamplight. It seemed to have a powerful appetite; today's attack was fairly typical in that regard. Two or three sheep, or one cow, would be found torn to shreds and eaten in the morning after an attack. Every so often an animal would be killed but not eaten, something no one in the village could explain. Wolves and bears killed to eat. This thing did not always obey that natural rule.

The Eistier had haunted the village for some time. The first attacks had come years ago, long before Belle and Maurice moved to the village. No one was sure how long the monster had been preying on their herds but the deaths had been blamed on natural large-game predators. The first confirmed sighting had been before Belle had even been born. Since then, many hunters had gone out to find it and keep it from ever disturbing the herds again. Even when they stayed out all night, they were never successful. The monster was the stuff of legends, with the unhappy twist that it was all too real.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up—far up—into blue eyes.

"I didn't mean to startle you, Belle," said Gaston. "What do you think of this?"

"Bonjour, Gaston. I agree with what everyone is saying: it's too early in the year. What will happen if this continues all through the winter?"

"I'm organizing another hunt," Gaston admitted. "But it's more of a formality for the sake of the other men. We need a solution that will work, not more of the same. A hunt will make them feel like they're doing something useful instead of sitting around helplessly while the herds are attacked."

"That sounds like it might work," said Belle, frowning in thought.

"Of course it will," said Gaston confidently.

"What are you thinking about that will work better than hunting the Eistier?" Belle asked.

"Don't worry your pretty little mind about it, Belle. I'll think of something. I'll pray, and the solution of how to defeat this demon will come to me." Gaston smiled reassuringly at her.

Somehow Belle wasn't terribly reassured. Maybe her hackles were raised by the condescending tone, or the implication that she couldn't be helpful. "I should be going. Papa will be waiting for his breakfast."

"Wait, Belle." As she turned, Gaston plucked her new book from her basket. He looked at the cover and frowned deeply.

After a moment, when it became obvious he had no intention of giving it back to her immediately, Belle said, "Gaston, may I have my book please?"

"How can you read this? It's pagan devilry," he demanded.

Belle felt her brows knit in consternation. "No it isn't. It's _La Belle et La Bête_. It's a very old fairy tale that good Christian parents have been telling their children for hundreds of years."

She knew immediately she'd chosen the wrong words. Gaston's brows knit even deeper than hers at the word 'fairy'. She doubted he'd heard the rest of the sentence. "Magic and witches are from the devil, Belle. The Bible tells us we must burn such things." He thrust the book back into her grasp hard enough to make her stumble. "You'll burn this, of course."

"_What_?" Belle gasped. "I won't!"

"A good, pious Christian woman would burn such trash that talks of witches and enchantments before it infects other faultless souls," Gaston insisted.

"It isn't trash!" Belle gasped. "It teaches important lessons about seeing beyond appearances into the goodness of someone's soul. I don't see any reason to burn it."

"There _is_ magic in it, isn't there?" he wanted to know.

"Yes," she reluctantly admitted.

"Then it is evil, and it must be burned," he said, as if this ended the argument.

"But everyone knows living paintings and beasts who transform into men and so on don't exist in the real world," Belle protested, trying another argument. "It's all make-believe. There are no such things as enchantresses and fairies. How can something that doesn't exist be evil?"

"The Bible tells us that witches and so on do exist. Why would it warn us against them if they didn't?" Gaston argued implacably. "My mother explained all of this to me when I came to her with the very same questions as a young boy. She was a wise woman, and a good Christian. I suggest you follow her advice, or you are no good Christian woman."

"I am a good Christian woman," Belle snapped. "But I won't get rid of my book. I don't see that I'm doing anything wrong."

"You will get rid of it, or I will no longer consider courting you, as I had intended. I will make sure no good Christian man considers you for his wife, either," threatened Gaston. "Your reputation will be permanently tarnished.

That stopped Belle cold. "Over a book? How can you?"

"My mother told me before she died that it is the small things that lead to backsliding into Hell. Such a thing, if allowed to exist, would only lead to further corruption."

Belle boiled with rage. She hadn't felt this angry and helpless since she was young and the boys, Gaston included, were mocking her for her inability to speak German. She wanted to cry, but knew, then as now, that she couldn't show any signs of weakness. "I won't get rid of my book," she said firmly. "It's not going to corrupt me. I will continue coming to church and believing in the Lord as I always have. _My_ parents explained to me that so long as you know what is in your heart, then your love of the Lord won't be allowed to be corrupted by talk of witches and enchantresses. They are harmless amusements that can't hurt anyone. And _you_ are not going to ruin my marriage prospects, even if you decide that I am not pious enough to be a good wife for you. Just as Jesus told the Pharisees: "Let he who is without sin be the first to cast a stone at her.""

Gaston's face went white for a moment, then hardened. She had him there, and he knew it. He could not ruin her reputation without risking his own, at least in his own mind. The kisses they'd exchanged in the past didn't bother Belle in the least in terms of her own faith, but she knew Gaston would see it quite differently. He'd see those kisses as signs of his own fleshly weakness. His mother would have told him so had she found out about them. He could not go about telling other men in the village she read 'evil' books if she could in turn besmirch his reputation no matter how tiny the infraction. She did feel bad about using his fears against him in such a way, but what he'd threatened to do would have destroyed her entire future. All because she refused to see the evil he imagined in a book he'd never read.

"_La Magdalene_," he hissed. "I'll make you regret this day, Belle."

She didn't answer, just looked at him coolly with an expression that said, _You have nothing to say to me anymore. Leave me alone._ Eyes narrowed, he sent one last glare at her before stalking over to join the men planning to hunt the Eistier.

Belle glanced around. None of the other villagers appeared to have heard their conversation. They were too focused on the latest attack. Everyone probably assumed Belle and Gaston had been talking about the Eistier, too. Their heated tones and upset faces would have gone completely unnoticed in a sea of expressions just as upset and voices just as heated.

Belle, on the other hand, suddenly felt weak and exhausted, as if it were the end of a day full of nothing but laundry. Her knees shook and threatened to give. Mustering all her willpower, she forced her legs to carry her away from the anxious villagers and towards her own home.

At the top of the small bridge she stopped, set down her basket, and gripped the railing so hard her knuckles turned red and white. Her breath suddenly came in ragged gasps.

What had she done? Just that morning she had been wondering whether she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Gaston. Had actually considered such a thing with some pleasure, if uncertainty. Well, no more. She could never think of Gaston with any pleasure again. There was no uncertainty about a marriage now. She hadn't thought him capable of such close-mindedness. Somehow she'd allowed herself to believe that his mother hadn't dictated his entire life to him, that he had the ability to break away to do and believe as he pleased now that she was dead. Probably based on those stolen kisses.

She'd lost her temper. A foolish thing to do, in hindsight, but what else could she have done? He would have taken away one of her few true pleasures in life: reading books of faroff places, daring swordfights and magic spells. Unfortunately, she knew Gaston meant what he said, that he'd find a way to make her sorry. At least he couldn't ruin her marriage prospects with the other men, not with her threats hanging over him. Belle's reputation amongst the other villagers was spotless, she knew. If any rumors started, she would know where they originated. Gaston was at least smart enough to know that, or he wouldn't have stormed away after her remark about casting stones.

Perhaps if she was lucky, hunting for the Eistier and formulating a plan to keep it away permanently would drive thoughts of vengeance on Belle from Gaston's head. Until today he certainly seemed to have forgotten his role in tormenting her when they were children. She had been willing to forgive, if not forget, since he appeared to have changed his ways like all the other boys who had once teased her.

Apparently he'd just traded one version of bullying for another instead.

Belle stood still and watched the water flowing beneath the bridge for a moment or two more. Then she gathered up her basket and made her way home, determined to act as if nothing was wrong. Her father would certainly be up by now.

He wasn't in the kitchen, but she was expecting that from the faint hammering she could hear below. She put some of the strudel on a plate, then went out to the tiny springhouse and poured a mug of cool milk. These she carried down into the cellar.

"Good morning, Papa," she greeted her father.

"Oh, good morning, Belle." His voice came from underneath the invention he was working on. "Hang on just a moment."

Belle set plate and mug down in a clear spot on one of the various counters lining the room and waited.

Eventually, after some more hammering, her heavyset father pushed himself out from under the hulking mechanical form. Peeling off his work goggles, he said, "That should do it for now. I think I—" He saw the meal and smiled. "Thank you, Belle. What would I do without—" Then he saw her face and the smile faded. "What's happened?"

_All that time on the bridge spent composing myself wasted,_ Belle thought. _I should have known it wouldn't work. Papa knows me better than anyone. _"I was just coming home when the Férmin triplets came rushing into town covered with blood screaming their heads off," was what she said.

Maurice paled. "The Eistier? So early?"

Belle nodded. "It sounds that way. Three sheep, two eaten."

Maurice mopped some sweat from his face, leaving streaks of grime that he appeared not to notice. "I've never heard of anything like this monster in all my travels around France. Yet no one here seems the least bit interested in finding out more about it. They just want to destroy it if they can."

"I've never read of anything like it in my books," said Belle. "An animal that kills for pleasure that is smart enough never to be caught for years on end? I can't imagine what it might be."

"What's being done about it?"

"Gaston said he'll lead the other men on a hunt, but he doesn't think it will work. He just wants to use it to buy time until he can come up with something else."

"A good plan. Smart young man, that Gaston. But I can't think of what that 'something else' might be." Maurice's eyes narrowed. "And that's not the usual look on your face when I praise Gaston these days. What else happened?"

Belle turned away, still raw. Maurice gently drew her down on one of the benches. "Did he ask you to marry him already? What did you say?"

"No, he didn't. Oh, Papa, I was so wrong about him. How could I have even thought about marrying him?"

"Here now, what's this? Oh my dear, don't cry. Tell me all about it."

Belle explained. Maurice's face grew more and more serious as she related the conversation with Gaston. When she finished, he sighed. "Do you want to know the truth, Belle?"

"The truth? What do you mean?"

"I was afraid of this. I admit I don't pay much attention to what goes on in the village sometimes, but I know his mother's type only too well. I was afraid she had left too deep of a mark on his soul for him to free himself after she was gone. She wouldn't have recognized true goodness if it bit her on the nose, for all her piety. I thought maybe he was different, because you seemed interested in his attentions…"

"I was."

"Then it's a good thing you discovered it now, before you said "I do." A man or woman like that, blinded by what they've been taught about good and evil, can be dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Belle frowned. "Surely not. Gaston is just one man."

"My dear, I know you've read _Notre-Dame de Paris_. Archdeacon Frollo hid his cruelty and lust behind the curtain of religion. A person who believes they are always right is capable of anything."

Belle felt cold. "What can I do?"

"I'm not sure." Maurice smiled at the look on his daughter's face. "I didn't mean to scare you, Belle. Don't worry. It may be that I'm overreacting. You might be right. The Eistier's early appearance this year, unfortunate and concerning as it is, might be just the thing to distract Gaston from thinking any further about you or your book. It _is_ a small thing to get so worked up over when the whole village has much bigger problems. For now, we should continue with our lives as if nothing has changed."

He turned his attention to the food she'd brought him. Belle was still troubled, but couldn't think of anything else to do but follow her father's advice.

She couldn't help but think, however, of the calculating look on Gaston's face when he said she'd regret this day.

* * *

_Author's Note: So I've managed to make Gaston quite puritanical here. And there will probably be people unhappy with the changes. I do have a reason for making Gaston insanely religious that will manifest in the next chapter or so. And as far as the abrupt about-face: it's been my experience that closeminded people can be pleasant, polite, even friendly—if they think you agree with them. It's the moment you express doubt or disagreement that you bare your jugular. You become The Enemy who must be forced to see the error of their ways (aka agree with the bigot) or destroyed. People who believe they hold the monopoly on truth are dangerous. The only people more dangerous are those without conscience at all who just seek to capitalize on the dissent caused by the closeminded. Thus, for example, in the Harry Potter universe I find Rita Skeeter and Dolores Umbridge to be far more sickening and terrifying than Voldemort._

_But enough soapboxing._

_Yes, I realize I referenced the Disney version of Hunchback of Notre Dame rather than the original story. I apologize to any Hugo fans reading._

_SamoaPhoenix9_


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Disclaimer: I do not own Beauty and the Beast._

Over the next few weeks Belle thought her father might turn out to be right. She did occasionally see Gaston—in a small town, it was inescapable—but he avoided her, and she him. She wanted no repetitions of his demands, or to remind him that he'd made them.

Of course many people did notice that the pair they'd assumed would be married in a few months suddenly were not on speaking terms. Belle had no idea what Gaston told people who asked. She only said they'd agreed they weren't right for each other and that she didn't want to talk about it. Accepting well-meaning peoples' condolences was a little embarrassing, but she tolerated it. She did feel sorry for the girls now eagerly throwing themselves at Gaston (the Férmin triplets were the most persistent). Whoever married him would eventually discover what Belle had. She could only pray the poor girl who did was more complying than she and would be able to follow all of Gaston's rules for proper Christian womanly behavior. Or more to the point, Gaston's mother's rules.

The Eistier's attacks continued unabated. True to his word, Gaston did indeed organize a hunt fairly soon after the triplets' discovery that fall morning. Most of the able-bodied men of the village participated. Belle and the other women spent what time they could spare from chores praying at the church for deliverance from the monster.

It was, of course, to no avail, as Gaston himself had predicted. The men spent all day out in the frosty woods searching and did not even find a single pawprint. They did find evidence of some long-dead game carcasses, but it was impossible to tell if it was the Eistier's work or that of a bear. Bears were becoming rarer, but they did still roam these woods.

The worry in the village grew. No one who owned livestock was not visited at least once as the winter took hold and deepened. Something had to be done, but what?

Maurice finished his most recent invention, a device that chopped wood on its own. He hoped to use it to help the elderly people in the village whose younger relations were busy with their own responsibilities and did not have time to chop extra wood for their elders. In the spring, he would cart it off to the nearest large town to see if he could make any money selling the design. Belle helped him carefully copy the schematics many times. So many things that had once been tedious had been improved recently with inventions such as this one. She was pleased and proud to possibly be a small part of it.

One evening in December, she sat copying by the fire as had become her habit when the dishes were done. Maurice sat nearby, tinkering with the lens of his hands-free magnifying glass helmet. The wind was just starting to whistle past the windows, indicating another snowstorm was on its way.

Belle looked up from her pen, tilting her head.

"What is it?" asked Maurice.

"I thought I heard voices." They both listened for a moment, but there was only the hissing wail of the wind. "I must have imagined it."

Abruptly someone banged on their door. Both of them jumped. Belle almost upset the table as she knocked into it. The ink spilled all over her latest copy. Maurice barely had time to rescue his lens after dropping it.

They stared at each other. "Who could that be in this weather?" asked Maurice.

The knocking came again. Together they went to the door. Belle peered through their device Maurice had invented to let them see who was at the door. She drew away with a gasp.

"It's Gaston."

"Gaston?" Maurice looked for himself. "Well, he certainly looks upset. I wonder what he wants?"

"Don't open the door, Papa. I have a bad feeling about what could bring him here, with the weather like this."

"Well, we can't exactly pretend we're not home," Maurice pointed out. "He'll have seen the light from the fire." He opened the door a crack.

Gaston pushed his way inside. Following him were many other men of all ages from the village. Their faces were grim. None of them would look directly at Belle.

"Um, well…come in, I suppose," said Maurice belatedly. "What can we do for you, neighbors?"

"We've discovered a way that will stop the Eistier's attacks for good," said Gaston. "We're confident it will work."

"Excellent. Glad to hear it," Maurice replied, looking curiously from one face to another. "Is there any way my daughter and I can help?"

"There is." Gaston gestured. Two of the village men lunged forward and grabbed Belle by the arms.

"Take your hands off me!" Belle shouted. She struggled and twisted, but she could not escape.

Several more men had blocked Maurice before he could help his daughter. "Let her go!" the older man cried. "How is treating an innocent young woman this way going to help get rid of the Eistier?"

"Innocent," Gaston repeated. He sounded smugly pleased. "An excellent word. Am I right in believing your daughter is a virgin, as a good unmarried Christian girl should be?"

"How dare you!" shouted Maurice and Belle at the same time, in the same tones of outraged indignation.

"You have no right to question her honor!" Maurice snapped. "You wanted to marry her yourself just a few months ago. She was pure enough for you then."

"And I trust she still is," said Gaston smoothly. "She claimed she was a good Christian girl. I'm prepared to take her at her word." He sent Belle a look that clearly said he doubted it. Belle struggled harder, longing to slap that self-satisfied expression off his face. This was all because of that book. He was here to get his revenge. What she couldn't figure out was what his plan could be, coming here with a group of men late in the evening before a snowstorm. Or why the men would agree to it.

"What do you think seizing me like a common criminal and subjecting me to humiliating questions will accomplish?" she demanded, trying to sound brave. "What has my purity to do with the Eistier?"

"The answer came to me as I was praying a few days ago," Gaston said. His eyes took on a glowing, worshipful look as he remembered the moment. "The Eistier is clearly a monster from Hell sent to torment us, just as the dragons of old were. The people of those times, in order to placate the monsters, would leave the most beautiful maidens in the land for the dragons to devour. Then the dragons would be satisfied, and torment the peoples' countryside no more. Belle is obviously the most beautiful maid in town."

Belle's knees gave. Now instead of holding her back, the men who grabbed her arms supported her.

This could not be happening.

"No!" Maurice cried. He struggled, but could not break away from the men who kept him from Belle. "You fool!" the older man shouted at Gaston. "Are you even listening to yourself? Those are mere medieval superstitions. They have no place in this enlightened age of machines and industry."

Suddenly the door burst open again. In strode old Monsieur Cuir, the bookseller. "I just heard of this insane plan," he snapped. "I noticed you conveniently told every man in the village but for me."

"We knew of your friendship with the girl," Gaston said. "We knew it would be hard for you to see that the sacrifice must be made for the greater good of the village."

"You mean you knew I'd object," said Monsieur Cuir. "And you, neighbors," he added, turning to the rest of the men, "you would follow this mad scheme? Sacrificing an innocent girl, a friend of your wives and daughters? How will you be able to look them in the face tomorrow morning after you've carried out Gaston's plan like a bunch of credulous peasants?"

The men shuffled their feet. All now looked ashamed.

As if sensing their doubt, Gaston turned to them. "Don't forget what I told you! We are wiser than our ancestors! Instead of simply leaving the maiden to be eaten by the monster, we will lie in wait and kill it when it arrives to feed on her. Then we'll be sure it will torment us no more."

The men nodded, more confident again.

"What?" exclaimed Monsieur Cuir. "And you believe this foolery, this madness?"

"Gaston's plan is the only one anyone can think of that has a prayer of working," said Monsieur Férmin, the triplets' father. "We are dealing with a monster from the very mouth of Hell. Who is to say the old ways won't work, even in this enlightened age?" He glanced at Maurice, whose face was ashen.

"I do not believe it," declared Monsieur Cuir. "I thought you were all rational men. There must be another solution."

"Now would be the time to voice one, old man," Gaston said condescendingly. "Besides, the girl might not be devoured by the monster if we kill it in time. We'll be able to bring her back to her father unharmed."

"Have you looked at the weather?" asked Maurice. "I may be a city man by birth, but I know the signs as well as you. You're a hunter, Gaston. Soon you won't be able to see a yard in front of your face, let alone shoot anything that moves in these woods."

"The perfect time to hunt a frost monster," said Gaston. Belle, from her place on her knees, seemed to be the only one who saw the triumphant, malevolent look he sent her. Of course he wanted to do it in this weather, whatever excuses he gave his lackeys in this horrible deed. He wanted her dead. He believed in his heart of hearts he was doing the right thing. Any way the scenario fell out, Gaston won. If the Eistier never came and Belle died of exposure, Gaston would still have rid the village of her 'corruption'. If the Eistier did come, Belle knew Gaston had no intention of trying to save her, though she might be lucky if one of the other men killed the monster before it killed her. Then the Eistier would also be dead. Gaston would literally have killed two birds with one stone, solving both of his problems with evil nesting in the town in one fell swoop.

There was no chance Belle could come back alive. Gaston would see it as his duty to make certain she died, protecting the villagers from the 'evil' they didn't even know about by pretending to focus on the actual evil. The genius of it was, no one would ever suspect her death was a deliberate execution, as final as a convicted witch's gallows.

No wonder Gaston had been silent for so long. He must have spent all the time since she had refused to burn her book concocting this.

"We're wasting time," Gaston said. "The faster done, the faster we can kill the Eistier. Come on, men."

Belle found some of her strength and struggled. She reached for her father and Monsieur Cuir, tears streaming down her cheeks, but the men that held all three of them were too strong. At last, Gaston himself seized her by the hair and dragged her out of the cottage while she screamed in pain and terror. Behind her she could hear the bookseller shouting angrily and Maurice's despairing calls for her.

Once they were in the outskirts of the woods, Monsieur Férmin came quickly up and unwound Gaston's fingers from Belle's hair. "Now Gaston, there's no call for that. After all, she's not a criminal."

"Yes, of course. Forgive me," Gaston said smoothly, bowing slightly to Belle as if he hadn't just been dragging her through the snow by the hair. "You should feel honored, Belle."

"_Honored_?" she spat. Her scalp still stung fiercely.

"Yes. All the men agreed you're the most beautiful girl in the village by far. You'll be helping the whole village to get rid of this monster. You're a heroine." Belle noticed all the other men nodding fervently. Clearly they needed to believe it in order to justify what they were doing.

She wished them nightmares of nothing but her screams for months.

"If bait is all you need, why not tie up the juiciest sheep left in the village out in the woods and wait for the monster to come?" she asked.

"Precedent says it must be the most beautiful maiden in the land," Gaston said smugly. "You should know that, Belle, with all your reading."

She couldn't deny he was right. She did know of stories such as that of St. George where maidens had been sacrificed to appease a dragon until St. George slew the monster.

Gaston smiled at the defeated look on her face. "You'll come quietly, won't you Belle?" he asked.

"It seems I have no choice," she answered dully. She had no desire to be dragged by the hair again. She pulled herself to her feet. She would walk to her death as proudly as she was able, though she wished she were dying for a nobler cause than merely refusing to burn a book. Still, she comforted herself a little wryly, there were certainly less noble causes to die for.

They were deep in the woods and the snow was driving hard by the time Gaston called a halt. Several men produced long ropes, with which they bound Belle tightly to a tree. She certainly wasn't going to be able to wriggle out of her bonds and escape into the wintery woods.

By this point, she was shivering. Gaston of course hadn't bothered to get her cloak or anything else that might keep her warm, and none of the men wanted to give theirs to her and risk it being ripped to shreds by the Eistier. She felt a newfound respect for Andromeda, the princess of Greek myth who had once been in a similar situation, chained to a rock as food for a sea monster for the crime of being more beautiful than the goddess of love. She wondered if Andromeda's situation had begun the precedent of tying beautiful maidens up in the open to placate monsters.

She wondered if the princess's lonely rock by the sea had been as cold as this snowbound tree.

The men melted into the woods. Soon, the only sounds were Belle's sobs, muffled by the odd world-still feeling that marks a forest in heavy snow.

Belle's shivers grew worse. Her fingers, ankles, nose and ears were numb. She could feel the pricks of pain on her cheeks that were her frozen tears. Now she regretted every one of them, though briefly they had felt warm on her cold face.

Belle alternated between praying, telling herself fairy tales, and singing as time wore on. But eventually she fell silent. The Eistier wasn't coming. It was too smart to be out in this weather. Trying to keep alert was too tiring.

Abruptly, as if the weather had heard her thoughts about it, a blizzard blew up. The world became whirling white in a manner of seconds. Belle knew she should feel the sting of the wind and the icy flakes as they struck her, but oddly she felt nothing. In fact, she felt a little warmer. And sleepy. Falling asleep suddenly seemed like the best idea she'd had all day.

She closed her eyes.

* * *

_Author's Note: It brings me no pleasure to show the bad side of religion like this. It is all too well known. I feel terrible for even perpetuating the idea that people who are deeply religious are awful people who will only use their religion to hurt others. I've tried to balance it by showing Belle is also religious in a quieter way. Something that really bothers me when fiction has religious commentary is that it often falls into the trap of showing religious people all one way. For example in the novel _Chocolat_, it really annoyed me that _all_ the bad people who abused, cheated, lied and stole were Christian and _all_ the good people who were kind and helped others were atheist or loosely pagan*, as if being Christian is what makes you bad or willing to at least go along with abuse. There was no balanced view to show that it was the _person_ who was bad and used religion as an excuse to hurt others. I've also seen Christian authors fall into the same trap in reverse all too often. Believing that someone's religion, or lack thereof, is what makes them a decent human being is, in my opinion, a completely false notion and it annoys me when I read a fiction book that is clearly slanted in either direction._

_*in the sense of worshiping nature and practicing hedgewitchery like a modern Wiccan or an ancient Druid, not a derogatory term for non-Christians._


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_Disclaimer: I do not own Beauty and the Beast._

Xavier prowled through the snowy woods. After so many years, his full Beast form felt as natural to him as his human one. In the winter he was more often to be found in this shaggy brown form. It was simply warmer.

So many nights he was out to hunt. But with the weather this bad, there would be no animals to find, wild or domestic. Tonight he was simply out to enjoy the sight of snow falling in the woods, sparkling in the moonlight.

He was more alert than usual in this ramble, and more assiduous about covering his tracks. He knew the villagers had led another hunt for his Beast form, the form they called the Eistier, not long ago. As usual, he'd made sure they hadn't found anything, but there was nothing to say they wouldn't hold another one so soon after the first. Their new leader, the young boy Gaston, was quite clever for a simple villager.

Xavier had never bothered to keep close track of the villages that technically fell under his jurisdiction. Every so often some brave soul would come petition him in his capacity as 'Lord Garoux'. He usually sent them away with a threat or two. He didn't want them pestering him all the time, then wondering why over the years they grew older, while he did not.

As the Enchantress had promised, he had indeed grown into a man. A strong, healthy young man, who was, if he did say so himself, strikingly handsome. But he did not grow beyond that. The bloom of young manhood never faded. Despite now being in his sixty-fifth year of life, in human form he appeared not a day over one and twenty.

However, he did know Gaston, a strong young man who, before the most recent hunt, had actually come to ask his lord's help. That was how Xavier had come to know the villagers referred to his Beast form as 'Eistier'. Xavier had sneered at him when request for aid against the monster had been made, telling the man who for all intents and purposes appeared older than him that such creatures did not exist and to stop wasting his time. To his credit, Gaston had not protested much. No doubt he was thinking of all the tales of the fates of those peasants a generation or two ago who had tried to rebel against Xavier. Gaston couldn't know he faced the man himself, of course, and not a son or grandson of the original 'Lord Garoux', but the legacy was still there. Enough to make the villagers hesitant in crossing their lord, anyway.

That, in part, was why, all these years later, Xavier was still killing their livestock. The peasants had challenged his authority, had in fact tried to kill him themselves. The Enchantress had told him to show no mercy. Decades later, he was still secretly punishing them for their trespass.

An unusual smell reached Xavier's nose, bringing him back to the present moment. He paused and snuffled deeply. Human, definitely. Several humans. Another hunting party, perhaps? In this weather? This was weather for humans to stay at home and crack nuts around a fire and tell one another foolish ghost stories.

Against his better judgment, Xavier decided to investigate. Something about the scent was bothering him.

Almost the moment he made his decision, the weather took a turn for the worse. In amongst the sound of the wind were mingled shouts of men. Xavier's sharp animal ears picked them up when human ears would have heard only the whipping of wind and lashing of trees. More shouting, then running footsteps of a fairly large group, all heading in the direction of the village. Xavier wasn't concerned about the weather himself—he'd been out in worse—but at least the humans were now gone. Except…the wind as it was carried towards him still held the scent of human.

Not too long after this he came across signs of the humans' stakeout: trampled snow behind a ring of trees. Several dead torches had been left behind, turning the white snow black with their ash where they had been plunged into the drifts to extinguish them. But what was in the center of this ring of trees? Xavier prepared himself to be amused at the villagers' latest trap for him.

He almost stumbled over the trap without realizing what it was. Instead of the ropes or branch-covered pit he'd been expecting, there at the base of a large tree was tied the limp form of a young woman. Xavier actually had to bite back a gasp when he realized what he was seeing.

This explained why the scent had been unusual. He had been smelling human female.

Xavier regarded the body. It was so obvious what this was. He had read so many different versions of this over the years in his pursuit of the classics: a sacrifice of a maiden in order to appease a besieging monster. The peasants had actually been superstitious enough to try it. But they had also lain in wait until the storm blew up, no doubt intent on killing the monster when it appeared. An unusual move that Xavier suspected was a concoction of Gaston's.

Something about this was not right. If the girl was bait and the men intended to 'rescue' her before she was eaten, why was she exposed to the elements? She wore no cloak or outdoor gear, and her clothes, while sturdy enough, were meant for indoors. Her exposed skin was red and even blue in places with cold. Snow was actually starting to pile on her. It was as if they wanted her dead regardless of whether they achieved their goal of killing the Eistier. What had she done to deserve such a fate? Had they even stopped to think that she would probably die in their mad scheme?

An odd emotion, pity, stirred within him. This girl was obviously unwilling. In addition to her state of undress, he could see globes of ice on her cheeks that were frozen tears. Abandoned to the blizzard, she was now unconscious and near death.

Xavier felt an odd, perverse sense of outrage at the foolish village peasants. Without really thinking about it, he began to use his strong teeth and claws to tear through the ropes binding the girl. He would try to save her if he could, to thwart the peasants at their own stupidity. They probably hadn't even thought of her as they fled.

Freed, the limp body toppled over sideways into the snow. Xavier carefully picked her up in his enormous arms. She was like a tiny china-faced doll, like the ones his sister Marie Thérèse had once owned. Luckily he wouldn't have to carry her too far in the blizzard; he knew of a cave that was close by. He would tend her there until the weather cleared, then take her back to his castle. He also didn't fear getting lost. Even in a blizzard his sense of direction was impeccable.

-0-0-0-

Belle moaned. She was in terrible pain; someone was pricking her all over with hundreds of thousands of sharp needles. But her limbs wouldn't obey her command to move away from the agonizing jabs.

Where was she? What was going on? She wasn't cold anymore, but she certainly wasn't at home, either. Something told her she was on hard ground, not her warm soft bed. Somewhere nearby something crackled and popped. Reddish light played through her closed eyelids. She smelled woodsmoke mixed with a damp, earthy scent. Not an unpleasant smell, but certainly not familiar.

With supreme effort she forced her eyes open a crack. She was indeed close to a cheerily burning fire. Its light flickered against curving stone walls. A cave, perhaps? How had she gotten here?

Just as her mind was starting to chew on that puzzle, a slight sound drew her attention. Belle rolled her eyes slightly to the left in the direction of the noise.

A massive shadow was projected onto the cave wall. A huge bearlike animal with devilish horns.

Belle's dry, raw throat allowed her one horrified squawk of terror. Somehow she managed to fling her body an inch or so away from the thing that cast that shadow. With her limbs still mysteriously paralyzed, that was all she could manage. Terrified, shaking with pain, she closed her eyes and waited for the even greater pain of teeth tearing into her.

Closing her eyes was a mistake. She could feel weakness pulling her down, down into blackness. Oh, well. Soon it would be over for her and she'd feel nothing ever again.

As she sank into oblivion again, she felt something smooth the hair back from her face where it had tumbled in her futile attempt to get away from the shadow. She thought she heard a gruff male voice, not one she recognized, say, "Hush. You're safe."

Then she remembered nothing else.

-0-0-0-

Xavier watched the girl, but she didn't stir again. He was fairly certain from her shallow, regular breathing that she was unconscious again.

It hadn't occurred to him that she might wake. Her cold flesh was slowly warming from the heat of the fire he'd built. He was no physician, but he thought she might live, at least until the snow stopped and he could take her back to his castle to continue recovering. There were plenty of warm blankets and so on there, though he'd have to shake the dust off first. He could feed her some hot food once she was alert enough to take it.

What had she seen? He wasn't sure. Enough to terrify her, certainly. That sound that had forced its way out of her had been a trapped animal's cry. She was too weak to do anything else but jump a little at the sight of the hulking monster sharing the cave with her.

For some reason, Xavier felt ashamed that she had seen him that way. Without really thinking about it, he transformed back into human form. It was much colder this way, of course, but he had foresightedly worn a cloak and breeches when he went out so he wasn't entirely naked. He sat on the cave floor across the fire from the girl, then adjusted the cloak to cover most of his bare skin. Now if she woke again, she would see a man instead of a Beast. A mostly naked stranger, true, but that was an improvement over the alternative at least as far as her peace of mind was concerned.

He vowed as he watched her shoulders rise and fall that as she recovered, he would take care to always be in human form where she might see. No doubt she knew of the destruction the Eistier wreaked as well as any in her village. He might have killed some of _her_ livestock, for all he knew. Certainly her family's, or friends of hers. However, she need never know he and the Eistier were one and the same. He would be only Lord Garoux to this peasant girl.

The storm finally dropped after several hours. Xavier transformed back into the Beast, and, hoping she wouldn't wake mid-journey, picked up the young woman again. He marveled at how light she was. Toiling through the snow on his wolflike hind legs was harder than actually carrying her. At last he slung her over his back and made the rest of the trip on all fours.

He pushed open the iron gate to his castle with his nose. The gate was never locked; despite the past insurrection, he was fairly certain he could handle any peasants who came calling. In the half-century he'd been living here, such intrusions were few.

The front door, however, was impossible for an animal to open on all fours. Xavier managed to get the girl off his back without too much trouble, though she thumped to the flagstones in a way that sounded like it might create bruises. She was so battered already with rope burns alone he doubted a few more hurts would make a massive difference. Transforming into human form, he opened the door, picked the girl up, and carried her inside.

As always, the cavernous front hallway was empty. When he had first been brought here, it was constantly bustling with servants at almost every hour. He had indeed been taken care of as a wealthy local lord should, as promised.

Slowly the servants began to leave and were not replaced. With the coming of the Revolution, some, mostly the younger, idealistic ones, had left on principle, saying they no longer had to work for the nobility if they didn't wish to. Many of them had gone to Paris to fight. Still more servants, particularly the men, had gone to join Napoleon's army when it marched through the district on its way to defeat in Russia and never returned. The older servants stayed on through the years, though many of them left in protest over his treatment of those involved in the revolt. The last holdouts had left—or more to the point, fled—when it became painfully clear Xavier was not aging past his early twenties. He had been on his own here for—goodness, it was going on thirty years now, he realized as he thought back.

He did frequently have the company of the Enchantress, for as she had promised she had not abandoned him as the faithless servants had. But sometimes she left for months or even years on end. She never said where she went, and he'd never worked up the courage to ask. She always brought him news of the outside world, and that was usually enough to keep him satisfied for company and conversation until she left again.

Now, he looked around the empty hall as if seeing it for the first time. What would the girl in his arms think of it when she awoke? Would she be overwhelmed by the sheer grandeur, or simply find it too empty?

It certainly didn't look its best. When he had first arrived, everything had been brightly polished, swept and waxed to perfection. Now it was dark, dusty, and riddled with cobwebs. So many of the fine furniture pieces and portraits were almost obscured in layers of grime. The place was livable—there was no mold on the walls, no rats scurrying about—but any cleaning to be done he'd had to learn to do himself when the Enchantress was away. He didn't always think of it, with no one but himself to look at it all.

More importantly, he had to get the girl comfortable so that she could continue recovering. She was still unconscious, but in the relative warmth of the indoors she might not remain so for much longer.

He carried her upstairs to what had once been a fine guest bedroom. The room had never had an occupant; no one of rank had ever come to call. Though she was a peasant, he wasn't inclined to put her in the servants' quarters. That would mean too much running around for him.

As he had expected, he had to shake the dust from the bedsheets and curtains before the bed was fit to put the girl in. Soon enough, however, she was tucked in, fully clothed. He had no intention of touching her garments, stained as they were. He'd have to find something else for her to wear when she woke.

This was turning into much more of an endeavor than he'd anticipated. Still, he'd started the project, he couldn't just toss the unconscious girl out into the snow and leave her because he'd hit a few unexpected obstacles. Not for nothing had he been living on his own for this long. No longer was he the spoiled child who knew how to do nothing practical he'd been when he arrived.

To that end, he made certain the chimney in the girl's room was clear and then lit a fire in the grate. When he was finished, he realized he was filthy himself and he'd done the whole project without a shirt on, only the cloak to ward of the castle's usual winter chill. He glanced towards the bed. Now the girl appeared to be sleeping naturally, taking deep, even breaths. He felt sure it was safe to leave her, clean up, and put on something more decent.

Only then did he pause to think: what would the Enchantress think if she discovered this new project of his?

* * *

_Author's Note: And here we are back to Xavier at last. I know some of you will be disappointed that there are no servants, but let's face it: they're mostly used for comic relief in the movie. In most older retellings of Beauty and the Beast, the servants, if they exist at all and the chores aren't done by magic, are either invisible or have been transformed into animals, ostensibly so they can't tell Beauty how to break the curse (remember in the original she just has to agree to marry the Beast, not necessarily fall in love with him). The tone of my story is a little too serious, I feel, for talking clocks and teapots. Much as I enjoy the servants, I felt Xavier's near-total isolation was too important to the story I'm trying to tell to bring the servants into it._


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_Disclaimer: I do not own Beauty and the Beast._

Belle woke slowly. The first thing she noticed was that she was warm. The next thing she realized was that she was no longer in pain. The horrible pricking sensation of thousands of pins was gone. She was somewhere comfortable, not on a hard surface.

The last thing she remembered was the pain, and the hard ground beneath her. And a horrible shadow on the wall.

He eyes snapped open. For a moment she thought she was back in the cave again, no matter how comfortable she was: firelight flickered here, too. However, as she looked around she saw that this fire was contained in a fireplace. She was in an old-fashioned bed with high posters and beautiful curtains all around. The curtains were drawn back, so she could see everything.

The room was the most spacious bedroom she'd ever seen. The floors were stone, but the walls were covered with silk wallpaper in a lovely pale cream. The rest of the furniture was gracious and grand and old-fashioned, to match the bed. The upholstery, throw carpets and bedding were all in shades of blue, violet and pink.

Stunned, Belle sat up slowly. She had never seen this place before, not even in her wildest dreams. How had she gotten here? _Where _was here? Her memories of everything that had happened after she had been dragged out into the woods were hazy at best.

That had all happened, however. It had not been a dream. As Belle looked down at herself, she realized she wore the same clothes she'd worn that night. They were dirty and stained from sitting against the tree in the snow, and from the ropes that had bound her. Whoever had put her in this bed had removed only her shoes.

A slight movement between her and the fire drew her attention. For a moment she panicked. In a chair nearby sat a large shadow. Then she took a closer look and scolded herself. This was no monster with horns. It was a person, a man, wearing…what _was_ he wearing?

Belle frowned. From what she could see, and all she could see at the moment was from his waist down, he wore old-fashioned knee breeches and stockings. This particular men's fashion had gone out of style before she was born. Men today, even men of high society, wore long slacks.

She leaned forward slightly to get a closer look, and the movement attracted his attention. He closed the book he'd been reading—she hadn't even noticed the book in his hand, so puzzled had she been by his choice of dress—and stood. For a long moment Belle forgot about his odd choice in fashion.

This had to be the most handsome young man she'd ever seen, including Gaston. He was tall and, while of a leaner build than Gaston, still obviously quite strong. His reddish blond hair was unusually long for a man and gathered simply at the nape of his neck, but the outdated style suited his sharp-boned face. He had piercing, chilly blue eyes that drew the attention and somehow threatened at the same time. Belle heeded the warning and shrank back a little. This man might be close to her own age, but something about the way he held himself made him loom over her a little even from across the room. And those eyes…they were too old for his face. Somehow, in a way she couldn't put a finger on, they didn't fit.

He was studying her as closely as she studied him. What did he see? A dirty, disheveled, frightened young woman at the moment. She drew the covers up to her chest in a protective gesture even though she was fully clothed beneath them.

The gesture seemed to bring him around slightly. "You're awake," he said. His voice was soft and mild-toned, with a sophisticated accent.

"Yes," she said. "Where are we?"

He glanced around, as if startled by the question. "This is my castle. You're in one of the guest chambers."  
"Castle?" she repeated dumbly. "How did I get here? And who are you?"

His answer was slow and careful. "I found you out in the woods, tied to a tree, not far from death. I brought you back here. And I am Lord Garoux."

"Lord Garoux? _You_?" The words were out before she could stop herself.

"You don't believe me?"

"Of course," she said hastily. "Who else has a castle in these woods? You're just…" _Young. Handsome. Actually helping someone, when for years your family has turned everyone aside. _"…the last person I expected to see after nearly freezing to death," was what she settled on.

"I admit to being a bit of a recluse. I'll forgive you for not recognizing me." He smiled a little when she just stared. The smile took away a bit of his forbidding look. "A small joke. I apologize. I ought not to bait you after you've just awoken. You must be very confused."

Belle nodded. She still couldn't quite take it all in. She had been saved from Gaston's intended fate for her…by the mysterious Lord Garoux, of all people. Lord Garoux, who never stirred out of his castle, the same as his father and grandfather and who knew how many generations before him, just happened to be wandering by in a blizzard and came upon her in the snow.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Lucky for you that I did. Can I ask how you came to be there?"

She explained Gaston's plan. Lord Garoux sank back into the chair he'd been sitting in when she awoke, face unreadable as she talked. "The fools," he said when she finished, his voice as mild as if he discussed the weather. "Would you like me to contrive some punishment for them?"

"No," said Belle. At his surprise, she said, "Knowing they failed to kill the Eistier with their medieval scheme will be punishment enough. Gaston will certainly lose some prestige when it becomes obvious his genius plan didn't work."

"Hmmm." He looked thoughtful. "How did they come to choose you in the first place? Apart from the obvious, of course."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you are quite beautiful, you know. It's usually the requirement in the stories I've read that the sacrifice be the most beautiful maid that can be found. I assume you are the most beautiful in your village?"

"I have no idea," Belle said, blushing a little. "I never really thought about it. There are other girls who are just as pretty, if not more so. The Férmin triplets—"

He waved a hand. "Not important. I will have no idea whom you mean anyway if you begin listing all the girls considered remotely pretty. But, leaving that aside, if you are not _obviously_ the most beautiful girl in the village—meaning, as you claim, there were other possible candidates—why did they choose you?"

"Gaston believes I'm a servant of the Devil," said Belle.

He laughed. Belle stared at him. Of all the reactions she had expected, this was not one of them. Disbelief, maybe. Or even surprise, or anger. Or worry, if he was particularly devout. But laughter?

"Forgive me," he said after he controlled himself. "But he believed it possible _you_ are a servant of the Devil? The man is even more of a fool than I thought. A blind fool, what's more. If he believed you capable of true evil, then he must see evil under every tree stump and in his tea at breakfast each day."

Belle laughed herself a little at this image. She couldn't help it, especially since after her encounter with Gaston about her book she had thought similar things.

"If I can ask, how did he come to such an extraordinary conclusion?" asked Lord Garoux. "Astonish me."

"Nothing very astonishing," said Belle. "I refused to burn my favorite book at his demand. He thought it a corrupting influence since it talks of fairies and magic spells. Until that day, he'd wanted to marry me."

"What book?"

"_La Belle et La Bête_," she replied.

He nodded. Those forbidding eyes were thoughtful again. "So you refused to burn the book. What happened next?"

"He said he would ruin my marriage prospects by telling the other men I was not a good Christian woman. I made threats of my own that I'm not proud of. I played on his fear of his own weakness. I hoped, with the attacks of the Eistier beginning so early in the season, that he would forget me and find another woman to his taste, one more obedient than me. You might think him a fool, but he is quite clever in his own way. Getting the other men of the village to agree to put me out in the woods as bait had the potential to solve both of his problems. If the Eistier had shown itself, he and the men planned to kill it, but not before he was 'too late' to save me. If the Eistier did not appear, well…you saw the result. Again, an accident, with no one to point a finger at him to say that my death was on his head. I am the fool, for not realizing how far he would go to do what he believed was his duty."

"You don't consider yourself a fool for not giving in and burning the book?" he asked, his face unreadable.

"It seemed so trivial. I couldn't imagine he would plan for so many weeks to kill me over a book, no matter how provoked he seemed. I was only relieved I stumbled on this aspect of him before I agreed to marry him. It probably would have gone worse for me if that had happened. And I love the book. To give it up so easily would have felt more wrong than giving it up to please my future husband."

"What do you mean, it would have gone worse?" Now Lord Garoux was frowning.

"If we were married, it would have been easy for him to treat me roughly or even kill me in the privacy of our own home. No one would interfere with a husband's treatment of his lawful wife, though of course there would have been a trial of some sort if I had died and it was suspected he had a hand in it. Possibly even he would have been convicted. The townsfolk might look the other way on some things and are too easily led by men like Gaston, but they aren't complete barbarians. If we had been engaged, it would have been very difficult to break the engagement without a more serious reason than a book. I thought—I wanted to believe—I was lucky to have escaped." She looked around. "I suppose I am still lucky in a way. You found me before the sentence was completely carried out." She glanced at her hands in her lap. "Thank you."

There was a few seconds of silence. Abruptly he stood. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes," said Belle, realizing it was the truth.

"I'll go find something in the kitchen to make up for you," he said, and left, leaving Belle staring at the door, stunned by the abrupt shift of subject and his even more abrupt exit.

Had he just said he was going to go to the kitchen to _make_ something? Wasn't he the lord of the castle? Where were his servants? Surely a lord didn't prepare food on his own for guests. Belle didn't know much about the ways of the nobility, but she was fairly certain cooking was usually not one of them.

Looking back on the conversation, Belle couldn't get over how _odd_ the whole situation was. And not just the outdated way Lord Garoux dressed, though that in itself was strange enough. She didn't doubt his identity—something in his bearing told he was indeed of noble blood. He spoke in a much more formal, refined style than anyone in the village did, and his accent was of the variety spoken in the vicinity of Paris. There was no hint of Germanic pronunciation in his tones. Belle realize she'd unconsciously begun to mimic this, falling easily back into the style of French she'd spoken as a child before coming to Lorraine.

His conversation, however formally pronounced, had been very unrefined and natural. He hadn't spoken to her as she'd been led to believe a lord would speak to a peasant; instead they had conversed as any two strangers of equal social standing might. She'd been more forthcoming than she'd dared to imagine she'd ever be with a lord. After she'd gotten used to his stunning good looks, which had taken a shockingly short amount of time, she'd felt strangely relaxed talking to him.

And then that abrupt exit after she'd thanked him. It was as if he didn't want to be thanked. And he'd forgotten any social niceties in his rush to get away.

_He admitted freely he's a recluse_, she reminded herself. _Perhaps he just hasn't had much practice with all those vaunted social graces the nobility are supposed to grow up with._

_Where are his parents? The rest of his family?_ she wondered. _Does he have any brothers or sisters? A wife? Children? Even if he somehow doesn't have servants, which I don't believe, he can't live here in an enormous castle totally alone._

_ It looks as though I'm going to find out more about Lord Garoux than I ever bothered to imagine! Who would have thought? _She smiled a little ruefully and sank down against the cushions. _And why do I think there is far more to him than I want to know?_

_ What am I _doing_ here? And _how_ do I get home and let Papa know I'm all right?_

* * *

_Author's Note: I enjoyed writing this description of Xavier from Belle's perspective. It's fun subverting expectations sometimes, especially since this is the equivalent of the scene in the movie where the Beast steps into the light and Belle sees him for the first time. And while he isn't gruff and rude to her, and he certainly isn't ugly at the moment, he still unsettles her on several levels. __Fashion-wise, this is like a young woman from 2013 meeting a guy who is dressed like he's from the 1950s. _Oh Belle, you have no idea exactly how weird this guy is!

_Or how much your presence is about to disturb his current status quo._

_See you soon with another update, dear readers!_

_SamoaPhoenix9_


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_Disclaimer: I do not own Beauty and the Beast._

Thanks to the Enchantress, there was always fresh food in the kitchen, even when she was gone for years at a time. Xavier made his way down the familiar route without really seeing anything. His mind was elsewhere.

He had not really expected the girl to be coherent when she first woke up. That had been the first surprise. But though extremely pale, her mind was certainly intact and unfevered. She'd immediately begun asking questions and answering his.

She spoke with an accent similar to his own. That had also startled him. The few peasants he'd spoken to in his exile spoke French with a rougher Germanic slur to some of their pronunciations. He'd assumed she was a local peasant. Certainly she lived in the village, and had intended to marry a village man and presumably spend the rest of her life there. But her manner of speaking had reminded him ever so slightly of his own origins in Versailles and of the boy he'd been.

He also hadn't intended to tell her she was beautiful. He hadn't thought so on first looking at her, unconscious and half-buried in snow, skin red and chapped with cold. In the cave he'd distantly admired her delicate features and thought her hair might be a nice color of chocolate brown if it were clean and smooth. Once she was warm and comfortable back at the castle, her skin had taken on what must be closer its normal fair paleness. He thought perhaps she might be pretty if he had seen her under normal circumstances.

When she opened her eyes and began to speak, however, was when he was struck by how lovely she was. Even with her hair bedraggled, tired and in dirty clothes, he could easily see why Gaston had been drawn to this girl. There was intelligence and warmth sparkling in her big hazel eyes and a quality of self-possession about her that intrigued him. She hadn't seemed intimidated, even when finding herself in the presence of her reclusive local lord. Her curiosity had been too great to be awed.

The compliment had just slipped out. It startled him, but he realized instantly he meant it. Even more intriguing was how she seemed unaware of her own beauty. Oh, she knew she was attractive; she hadn't tried to deny it, but it seemed as if it would never occur to her to use her beauty to her own advantage as the women of the French court had once done. He thought it likely if she had tried to charm her way out of being sacrificed, with her looks she might have succeeded. Or maybe not, but she hadn't even thought of it.

For some reason he liked that about her.

She had talked to him as if he were a fellow peasant, without fear or overt respect. Polite, but not stiff. Just the simplicity of the interaction had awakened a longing in him he hadn't even realized he had. No one had ever spoken to him in such a way except perhaps his sister Marie Thérèse when they were young. Before his bargain with the Enchantress, he'd been the _dauphin_ and accorded the deference due his position. Afterward, he was still the local lord. Even later, when the rumors began to swirl about the way he stayed the same age, his mysterious disappearances, and his relationship with the strange woman who often stayed with him, fear tinged his interactions with all his servants. The villagers all feared to cross him after the insurrection.

The only one who treated him exactly the same was the Enchantress. But while she was his guide and tutor, after nearly fifty years he still knew next to nothing personal about her. No doubt she was his closest companion, but she didn't provide any real companionship.

If he was honest with himself, he had to admit he was lonely. He'd worked so hard to keep people away after the last servant had left. Now he found it had worked too well. Just the small amount of interaction he'd had with the girl made him hungry for more.

He'd thought to let her go back to the village once she was fully recovered. That would take the least chance of the Enchantress arriving and discovering the girl. For some reason Xavier couldn't shake the feeling the Enchantress wouldn't approve of what he'd done. He might not know much about her, but he had a good feel for how she'd react to things after half a century of association. She'd have counseled him to leave the girl in the snow, that if she had been left there by her own people she must have deserved it. He'd have believed her.

Yet that had not been the case. The girl had said Gaston had tried to kill her out of fear of a mere book, and to punish her for not doing as he said. If Xavier had left her to die when he discovered her out in the snow, an innocent girl would have been dead partly through his choice not to help her. It was not an idea he liked. He had killed plenty of animals, and the living relatives of the villagers who had risen against him probably still had nightmares, but he had never come so close to killing an innocent human.

He also knew the Enchantress would definitely not be pleased if she returned and found a human girl living in the castle. The Enchantress, at least, had been enjoying the absence of the outside world since the last servants had gone. It meant she was free to work her magic, since there was no one to observe but Xavier. Having to hide her magic again would not sit well, particularly if the human girl was as curious as she'd seemed in their short conversation.

The girl could not be here when the Enchantress returned. Yet, a plan was growing rebelliously in his mind to delay the girl leaving as long as possible. He was too starved for companionship and suddenly felt he couldn't bear it any longer. Just a small taste had been enough to leave him wanting more. What had begun as a small project to cross the villagers for their stupidity had becomes something more.

Speaking of taste, he had reached the kitchen and begun to prepare a simple meal without really thinking about it. It was the kind of meal he'd gotten adept at: bread, cheese, some slices of ham, an apple. He did pause to think about drink, then poured a goblet of wine. He cut off an extra slice of bread and another of ham for himself; he wasn't particularly hungry but he had a vague feeling it would make the girl uncomfortable if he sat and watched her eat. The Beast in her favorite story did just that, but Xavier didn't always have the claws and fangs that prevented him from enjoying human food. Besides, he wasn't interested in asking the girl to marry him. That idea was ridiculous. But he thought he understood at least some of what that long-ago Beast had gone through. That Beast, too, complained to Beauty of loneliness.

He resolved anew that she would never learn of his other state for as long as she stayed. He didn't think he could bear to see the same look of fear in her expressive eyes that his servants had worn in their last years with him. And they hadn't even known of his other form, only that he had ceased to age. How much more, then, would a human fear the true horror of the Beast?

He enjoyed his other form; he relished feeling so powerful as his bulk increased, the ease with which he stalked through the forest. He felt invincible. But he could easily imagine the reaction if a human ever beheld him up close—which he'd taken care to never allow. The screams were bad enough whenever he was glimpsed in the night as he stalked their herds.

Xavier shook his head ruefully. He barely knew the girl. Females did have a reputation for chatter, though he'd of course known women or girls—such as his older sister—who held their silence well. Intelligent this girl might be, but he might still wish to be rid of her and return to silence in a few days. Then the problem would cease to bother him.

He pushed open the door to the girl's room to find she had fallen asleep again, though it was the same natural sleep as before and not the unconsciousness of the cave. Xavier placed the tray on a table set up in the room for the purpose—noble guests often wished to breakfast in their rooms—and returned to the chair he'd been sitting in earlier. His book was still where he had left it.

The fire was getting a bit low. He poked it up, then added another log. Watching the flames begin to lick their new food, he had to smile a bit. His parents would have been shocked if they could see him now, fetching food and tending a fire like a servant. But these were all skills he'd had to learn.

There was no one else to do them.

-0-0-0-

Belle drifted into an uneasy sleep after Lord Garoux left to fetch her food. She hadn't intended to, but her body was still reminding her of the ordeal she'd been through. Even there, she kept glimpsing blue eyes in her dreams; Gaston lighter blue and Lord Garoux darker. Both pairs of eyes frightened her with their intensity.

When she woke, she was relieved to find that even though Lord Garoux was in the room, his eyes were not on her. In fact, they were so fixed on his book that he didn't notice at first she was awake and she was able to look at him unobserved.

She was struck again by how handsome he was. Too perfect, almost, now that she'd had a chance to get used to his general presence and examine him more critically.

_That's foolish, _she scolded herself. _There's no such thing as too perfect. You've just never seen anyone quite this good-looking, man or woman._

Yet the impression remained. There was something uncanny about the way he looked stunning no matter how he moved, even in the slight back-and-forth tilt of his head as he read. Everyone had at least _one_ angle that wasn't entirely flattering. Belle knew she herself did, and the most handsome man she knew, Gaston, certainly did. Something about the way Lord Garoux seemed to look good no matter what screamed false to her eyes if not her brain. She could only hope she'd learn to ignore it until she was well enough to leave. She was indebted to him, after all. To be on edge around someone because he was too handsome just seemed ridiculous.

She'd had mild infatuations before. She knew what that felt like. This was different. It wasn't the humming nerves that came when she was close to someone she was attracted to. This was sheer reaction to physical appearance that didn't even count as attraction. She felt nothing for Lord Garoux, and didn't want to know him better, as she'd felt with past infatuations. She was more intrigued with his apparent lack of servants than by him personally.

_Pull yourself together! _she ordered sternly. _The last thing you want is for him to catch you staring and _think _you're interested in him!_

She turned away just in time. A second after she looked up at the canopied ceiling she heard him move.

"I brought food," he said, "but you were asleep when I came back. Are you feeling any better?"

"Some." Belle sat up. She didn't quite dare ask why servants hadn't brought the food.

"Good. It's set up at the table over here. Do you think you can get up?"

Belle considered. "I think so." She swung her legs out from under the covers and onto the floor. He didn't offer to help and she didn't ask. She wasn't sure she wanted him touching her. Lord or not, he was a complete stranger. Carefully she stood, testing to make sure her legs would take her weight before stepping forward. She made it to the upholstered chair he'd indicated, but just barely. Her weakness was frightening. The gnawing in her stomach told her it had been quite some time since she'd last eaten.

She sank down onto the chair. Before her on a small, elegant table was a simple, cold meal such as she might prepare her father for lunch if he were working on an invention all day. She longed to pick up the piece of bread and take a huge bite, but she held herself back.

He was watching, and saw her hesitation. "Go ahead. Eat."

"I read that it's unpardonably rude for a peasant to take a bite before someone of noble blood does." She indicated the much smaller meal he'd obviously prepared for himself but left untouched.

His eyebrows went up, and he smiled a little ruefully. "I'd forgotten that. But if it will make you feel better…" He took a single, deliberate bite out of his own piece of bread.

Belle smiled a little back. "Thank you." Though her stomach clamored for her to wolf it all down, she held herself back, trying to eat in as mannerly a way as she could. He, too, briskly ate his bread and ham and went back to his book. Belle saw on the cover a title in an alphabet she couldn't read. She thought it might be Greek.

When she was done, he put the book away. "I realized while you were asleep that I've been very rude," he said. "I haven't even asked your name."

"Belle. My name is Belle Dupont."

"Belle?" This startled him for some reason. "No wonder you like _La Belle et La Bête_ so much."

"My mother named me for her own mother, not the story. _Grand-mére_ was Mirabelle, so I'm Belle."

"Mirabelle is your name, then, too?"

"No," Belle said with a smile. "_Grand-mére_ was still alive when I was born. _Maman_ didn't want us to get mixed up. So she named her daughter Belle."

"I've never met someone named Belle before." He looked thoughtful. "Is it common these days?"

"Not particularly." What an odd question! And he seemed to be trying to engage her in conversation. Not at all what she'd expected from a lord, even one as young as this. They looked at one another as if waiting for the other to say something. Just as the silence became awkward, Belle blurted, "Please, if I can ask, what book are you reading?"

"This?" He held up the book, glancing at the cover. "You have your favorite story, I have mine. This is Homer's_ Odyssey_. I've read it so many times I've lost count."

She's been right the letters were Greek, then.

He seemed to misread her dubious look. "Do you read Greek?"

"No," Belle admitted. She knew she was certainly more educated than most working-class girls; she could read French thanks to her parents and Monsieur Cuir had taught her to read German and do some ciphering so she could help in the bookshop. But reading Latin and particularly Greek were serious, scholarly pastimes. She'd never heard of someone reading Greek for pleasure. "I don't know anyone who reads Greek. I've read two different translations of the _Odyssey_, though. One French, one German, so I know the story."

"I think there are a few different versions in the library," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"You have a library?" Belle felt herself leaning towards him.

Something odd—a calculating look, she thought—flashed through his eyes. Then he smiled. "Indeed. With books."

Belle smiled a little at his sardonic tone. "I'd love to see it."

"I think that might have to wait until you're feeling better. You were lucky to make it to that chair from the bed."

"I feel much better now that I've eaten," she countered.

"It's a longish walk from here. But I promise to show you the minute you're up to it."

Belle sighed. "I guess I can wait. I am feeling a little tired again." The bed was looking more and more inviting.

"Do you mind if I stay and read while you rest?" he asked as she rose to go back to the bed. "I'll go away if it would bother you, but I like at least the illusion of company."

Belle considered, sitting on the bed. She knew what the village gossips would say, to be alone in a bedroom with a man who wasn't family might as well be adultery. Gaston would probably want to publically denounce her as a harlot if he could see the scene right now, even though she and the lord were on opposite sides of the room and their fingers hadn't so much as brushed each other. But that choice had been taken out of Belle's hands when Lord Garoux brought her back to his castle. She'd already been alone with him for quite some time, awake and asleep. He hadn't offered to touch her or indeed seem particularly interested in doing so. She'd been helpless when he found her in the snow, and she was fairly certain he hadn't taken advantage of it.

"I don't mind," she said at last. "But please, could I ask a favor in return?"

"Ask."

"Would you read your book aloud? I've never heard Greek before."

He seemed taken aback for a moment. Then he nodded. "I'll start at the beginning."

"It won't matter. I won't understand it. You could start in the middle and I'd never know," she pointed out.

"True, but it still seems wrong to me." He shrugged.

"As you like, then." Belle slid herself under the covers and lay with her back to him, so he wouldn't know when she fell asleep. If he was reading aloud, she'd also be able to hear that he was still on the other side of the room. It wasn't that she really thought he'd take advantage of her—he'd already had plenty of opportunity, presumably ignored—but her mind was insisting that she take the precaution now that she was conscious enough to do it.

He waited a moment until she was settled. If he saw through her ploy, he didn't remark. She heard some pages rustling, then his light tenor voice began to read.

The words were strange, but she liked the cadences. Every so often she'd hear a name she recognized from the translations she'd read herself. He'd been telling the truth that he read this book often; his voice moved over the words with the assurance of easy familiarity, smoothly and without a stumble.

With this in the background, Belle eventually slipped into a much more restful sleep than the last.

* * *

_Author's Note: Another deviation from the movie, I decided to make the Beast well-read and a lover of the classics. The Odyssey is a favorite of mine as well. I don't read or understand Greek, but I've heard a spoken version of the first book in the original and I really find it pleasant to listen to. Greek and Latin were standard subjects for noble boys, and I imagine along with the other servants Xavier had at the beginning of his exile was a tutor. Once he grew up, without someone directing his studies anymore, I imagined he began reading what was in the library for pleasure and diversion rather than for scholarly pursuits. Isn't reading always more fun when there's nobody there to tell you what to read and then ask you stupid questions to make sure you "got" it?_


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_Disclaimer: I do not own Beauty and the Beast._

When Belle woke this time, she was alone. The chair was empty, and the fire had been banked. She rolled over and stared up at the canopy. For a moment, all that would really come to mind was that she'd never been in a bed this comfortable in her life.

Then her brain caught up with the events of the past few days. She sat up sharply. There was light poking through the heavy curtains from two windows. She hadn't noticed this before, which probably meant it had been night when she'd spoken to Lord Garoux. But how many days or nights had passed since she'd been left in the snow?

_How long have I been here?_

She swung her legs to the floor, relieved to find her past weakness just a memory in her muscles. Rest and food had restored her. Speaking of food…

Her stomach growled. She was hungry again. And since no one seemed to be appearing to provide any, searching was definitely in order. Belle found her shoes tucked beneath the bed and pulled them on. There was nothing she could do about the ragged state of her clothes, if indeed there were other people in this castle besides Lord Garoux to see her. It was time to find out.

Belle pushed open the door to her room and peered out. A perfectly ordinary hallway, empty. The place was much bigger and much grander than she'd ever thought to imagine, but definitely empty. Eerily so, as it was clearly built for a lot of activity. Belle felt the force of the emptiness and silence as soon as she stepped out of the more intimate confines of the bedroom. She shivered. There was something sad and incredibly lonely about this castle. And also, if she was honest deep within herself, vaguely threatening. If she'd had to describe a place that was haunted, it would have been of something like this. Maybe not on this scale, but the atmosphere was right. It was just too quiet.

But this was no time to be squeamish and hide in her room like a child. She was hungry, and besides, she was curious. Squaring her shoulders, Belle walked purposefully down the hall, whistling a little to keep herself from becoming too intimidated. Dust rose up around her feet. She looked down at the carpet, and found another pair of footprints leading the direction she was heading. Hopefully Lord Garoux's prints would lead to the kitchen.

The footprints led to a vast entrance hall. Sunlight streamed in through myriad high windows, but like the halls before it, the entranceway was all empty. Belle made her way down the grand staircase, one hand on the finely carved balustrade. Even though her hand got dirty, it was worth it to momentarily pretend she was a fine lady descending for a grand ball.

Reality returned when she reached the floor and came face to face with the true size of the entrance hall. For all her imaginings, she really was just an ordinary girl in grimy old clothes. She stood still at the bottom of the stairs and just looked at it all, quaking a little.

An enormous growl from her stomach finally distracted her from her overawe. The angry rumble was so loud it actually echoed a bit. Belle couldn't suppress a nervous giggle, but she was also spurred to continue exploring. There were more sets of dust-footprints on the floor leading into several different rooms, though they were all the _same_ footprints, the ones she'd been following from her room. It really was true that no one else lived in the entire place.

_How long has it been like this? And how did no one ever notice in the village that the castle was practically empty except for its master?_

This place puzzled her more and more the longer she thought about it. It almost made her wish she could stay and try to figure it all out. But that was foolish. Her Papa and Monsieur Cuir thought she was dead in the snow. She needed to go home.

But first and foremost she needed food. Picking one of the sets of footprints at random, Belle followed them to one of the sets of doors. Pushing a door cautiously open and ignoring the squeaky hinges, she could see that this was a dusty parlor. An enormous thronelike chair sat before a massive fireplace, flanked by low couches. An intimate space meant for visiting that clearly hadn't been used in some time. Belle closed the door and tried another set.

This one opened into a long dining hall. Much more promising. Belle pushed the double doors fully open and entered the room. She'd never seen such a massive table. Though there was nothing on it now, it was easy to picture it spread with a sumptuous feast. Sideboards placed strategically around the room would have held even more dishes. There was another massive fireplace in this room, a match for its twin across the grand hall. On each end of the long room were more sets of doors. Belle chose one and peeped inside.

This was a long, empty room. It was too wide to be a hallway, but she couldn't figure out the use for a room built with its length far exceeding its width that was not a dining room. She could see curtained windows lining each side of the room that, when open, would allow plenty of light to enter. This was clearly a wing built off the main castle keep.

Curiosity got the better of her hunger, at least for the moment. Belle entered this new room, determined to figure out its purpose. It was connected to the dining room, which meant it had something to do with entertaining guests. Now that she was fully inside, she could see the walls were lined with elegantly carved and upholstered chairs, but there were no tables to be seen. There were also three massive chandeliers hanging above, evenly spaced down the long room, with the most elaborate in the center. When lit and polished they would probably light the room magnificently at night.

Belle walked slowly to the center of the room, staring around her with wide eyes. It wasn't until she was standing directly below the largest chandelier that a vague memory floated into her mind.

When she was a child, her parents had taken her sometimes to public assembly rooms in the cities, which rich people rented out at night to give parties and dances. Belle's parents weren't rich enough to be invited to such things, but sometimes during the day they would be allowed to take their little daughter to peer at the fine rooms while servants were cleaning them for the evening. Belle loved to look at the stylish furnishings and wall hangings when she was young, and imagine the elegant silk-clad ladies and gentlemen dancing. The newer ballrooms were built large and square, to accommodate waltzing. Belle had found out when she was a bit older that waltzing was fairly new, a somewhat scandalous dance imported from the court in Vienna. It was slowly becoming more accepted by all but the most conservative these days. Even a fairly poor girl like Belle knew the simplest waltz figures. The oldest assembly rooms, however, built before it was fashionable to waltz, had looked much like this room, designed for a time when most formal dancing consisted of long rows of couples dancing up and down the room's length. People still did these dances; "country dances" they were called now, though in truth they were popular with all classes of people from the royal court to the lowest peasants dancing at a barn raising.

That's what this was, then. An old-fashioned ballroom. And just as empty as the rest of the castle.

Belle left the room as slowly as she'd entered, still soaking in dust-covered details. Back in the dining room, she headed for the set of doors opposite.

At last, she'd found her goal. This was definitely a kitchen, though far larger in scale than anything she'd ever seen. Why, the fireplace alone was large enough to roast a whole ox! Built into the brickwork were several more alcoves for baking and other, smaller tasks. An enormous blockwork table, almost as big as the dining table next door, took up most of the center of the room. This table was also empty but scrubbed clean; it had been used recently. Most of the rest of the kitchen was clean as well apart from a few cobwebs in the corners. More doors led to what were presumably pantries, butteries, sculleries, and so on. If there was any food to be had, these smaller areas were the places to search.

Belle chose the closest to the left at random. She was determined to search each until she uncovered something edible. The first few led to empty storage rooms or places for preparing meat, pastries and so on. Unused utensils were carefully arranged, proclaiming the intended use of each room. One led to a little flight of downward spiral stairs that, when followed, revealed a cool, dry wine cellar. Here at least there was evidence the castle was inhabited by _someone_: there were many, many crates of wines in a bewildering variety of whites, reds and blushes. For the moment, Belle left these untouched and returned to the main kitchen.

The rest of the kitchen alcoves were disappointing. There was nothing in any of them. One did lead out to a snowbound kitchen garden, and what looked like orchards beyond that. Belle closed the door on the last empty pantry and propped her fists on her hips in frustration. If there was no food in the whole kitchen, where had the food Lord Garoux had served her _come _from?

A strange noise, like a whistle of wind, suddenly came from inside the pantry door she'd just shut. Belle frowned. There had been no windows in that room that she remembered. Just rows upon rows of empty shelves. Still frowning, she opened the door and peered inside.

On the set of tall shelves closest to her were now piles of fresh vegetables and fruit, and loaves of bread. She had been certain all the shelves were empty just seconds ago.

Belle stepped back into the pantry to examine the food that had appeared. Yes, she decided, that was the right word—appeared. She knew without doubt this food had not been there before. And it was the middle of winter. How on earth were there fresh lettuce and apples in this pantry? Potatoes and carrots were understandable—they kept well enough, and it was still fairly early in the winter. But lettuce?

Belle selected several of the vegetables and fruit and a loaf of bread, and carried them out onto the big table to examine them in better light. She'd been right that there were no windows in the pantry.

These looked ordinary enough. Nothing remarkable about any of the things sitting on the table before her. Except for the undeniable fact that they had appeared out of thin air.

On a whim, Belle went to some of the other rooms she'd already checked. Most were still empty, but in the dairy there were now several large rounds of cheese and in the larder had appeared several cuts of meat.

Fresh meat.

This Belle stared at the longest. She could find logical explanations for overlooking the other food—barely—though she was fairly sure she hadn't. This, she _knew_ she hadn't overlooked. The meat, venison if she had to judge, was not salted and preserved as meat in a larder in wintertime should. It had _appeared_, as fresh as if it had just been shaved off a deer.

Instinct screamed for her to run. Get out of this eerie empty place with food that popped out of nowhere. Run out into the snow and not look back, even if she did freeze this time. It was better than being here, where something was very, very, _very_ wrong.

Warring with that was the same brand of intense curiosity that had spurred her to look in the ballroom. This was the greatest puzzle she'd ever come across, and she knew deep down that if she ran now, she'd wonder for the rest of her life if this had all been a dream.

Cautiously selecting one of the slabs of meat, Belle brought it out to the table beside the other food she'd gathered. She wondered what would happen if she tried to make a stew out of the meat and vegetables. Would it all disappear again if she didn't eat it right away?

There was only one way to find out. Belle began to explore the kitchen, gathering the utensils and other equipment she'd need. In another formerly empty pantry she found dried spices and herbs, just what she'd need to make a stew. It was as if the kitchen had sensed her intentions and provided. Belle struggled not to be frightened at this thought. She distracted herself by preparing the stew, just as she'd done a thousand times at home. When it was bubbling away in a shiny copper cauldron over a nice, hot fire, she perched herself on a bench to wait, munching contentedly on hunks of bread and bites of apple.

If only she knew where the library was! This would be the perfect time to read a book. But one didn't leave something cooking over a fire unless one wanted to come back to burned food. Instead she amused herself by wondering exactly how elaborate with meals this strange kitchen would allow her to get. Did it only supply basic ingredients, or if you needed to plan a feast would it provide for that as well?

Belle had learned to cook from necessity when her mother had died. She didn't love it as much as reading, but she didn't mind it, either. She occasionally poked through recipe books when the bookseller had them to marvel at the dishes intended for servants to make for great families. She'd never gotten the chance to try any of them, or been much inclined to. She and Maurice didn't have the time or money for her to experiment with dishes she might not get right the first time. Might the library have books of recipes?

She was letting her imagination run away with her. She wouldn't be here long enough to experiment with this odd self-providing kitchen. Once she was fully recovered, she would go home to her father. She wanted to reassure him since she was fairly certain he thought she was dead.

Belle was lost in the middle of these thoughts when footsteps sounded in the dining room. Lord Garoux must have been attracted by the smell of her cooking stew. He was probably coming to find out its source.

By the time the kitchen doors opened, Belle was well prepared for who was behind them since the footsteps gave her such advance warning. What she was not prepared for was the look of rage on Lord Garoux's face when he finally opened the door.

* * *

_Author's Note: Just to torment you further, this will be the last update for a little while. I'm in the midst of writing more chapters for Camp CaNoWriMo, which have yet to be edited. I won't be doing that until after camp is done at the end of July. However, you will be reassured to know that there are many more chapters coming down the pipeline eventually._

_The ballroom in this castle is based on the ballroom at the Governor's Palace at Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia. I have put a link in my profile to a photo of the ballroom that gives you an idea of its dimensions. It is much longer than it is wide, while when we think ballroom today we think of a larger, more squared off room to accommodate dances that move around the room in a circular fashion such as the waltz. Waltz hadn't been invented in pre-Revolutionary France-it came from the Austrian court early in the 19th century, though by the 1790s there were some dances that had begun to vaguely resemble waltzing in that they involved two partners dancing with one another exclusively while touching. Previously, the main styles of formalized dance were the minuet, where two partners mirrored each other in complicated memorized steps but rarely touched, and country dances, which consisted of couples dancing in long lines (the Virginia Reel is a good example). Both these styles of dance worked best in a long room. Waltzing was an incredible scandal as it traveled through the 19th century ballrooms of Europe, the United States and eventually countries like Japan that were trying to Westernize because-gasp-the partners are_ touching_ throughout. And connected in a way that, if you think about it, has some...provocative undertones.__ And you thought waltzing was sweet and innocent compared to the bump and grind stuff popular today! Needless to say I'm going to have some fun with waltzing later on in this story. ::wink::_


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_Disclaimer: I do not own Beauty and the Beast._

_What was she doing here?_

Xavier had been coming back in from stalking through the woods as the Eistier (the name was starting to grow on him) when something reached his sensitive nose. It smelled like cooking meat, along with vegetables and savory spices and other things he couldn't identify.

It smelled wonderful.

However, as he followed his nose, he realized the smell wasn't coming from the village, but from the castle. A frown creased his heavy wolflike face. The Enchantress never cooked. She conjured her own food. Who would…

The girl. Belle. Somehow she had found her way to the kitchens. Which meant she had likely discovered the food appeared fresh from nowhere. What would she think? He had to keep her from realizing there was magic at work. There could be no good outcome from that discovery. Too many other realizations would be open to her from there.

He was annoyed when he first comprehended what the cooking food smells meant. He had progressed to angry by the time he reached the castle gate because he'd had to transform back into a man and wade through the snow in bare feet the rest of the way in order to mitigate the risk of Belle seeing the Eistier. She was turning out to be far more trouble than she was worth. He was of half a mind to tell her to get out before she began to actually disrupt his life any more than she already had.

It took far too long for him to make it back to the castle and then locate some normal clothes before confronting the girl in the kitchen. He did note that she'd also been in the ballroom, if the footprints in the dust were any indication. She'd been busy.

He wasn't sure what he expected to see when he burst into the kitchen in a temper. Belle sitting calmly at the large table looking completely unsurprised to find him standing there was not it.

"Good day, my lord," she said respectfully, standing up and giving a small curtsy.

"What are you doing in here?" he demanded.

Now she finally showed surprise. "I was hungry."

"And thought you'd come poking around?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and took a step backward. "I had no idea when you would be back. Did you expect me to wait in my room for your nonexistent servants to feed me?"

Xavier sputtered incoherently. He hadn't even considered what would happen when she figured out he was a lord with no servants. He had no planned lie to tell her. But of course she'd have found out the moment she left her room.

_Idiot!_ he scolded himself. _Think quickly! Lie! Lie!_

He could think of nothing to say.

They stared at one another, she looking slightly wary while he was frozen with his mouth awkwardly half-open. After a very long moment where the only sound was the fire crackling, Belle relaxed her tense posture ever so slightly and gave an even tinier curtsy than before. "You don't have to tell me anything, my lord. You obviously prefer your privacy." Her eyes flickered around the vast, empty kitchen, emphasizing the point.

She was giving him a way out. It was more than he deserved after such a blunder. Still, his traitor mouth blurted, "The servants all left long ago. I am used to being alone."

She gave him an inquisitive expression, inviting more if he chose, but he had no intention of expounding on _that_. At last she gave a small shrug and said, "I'm sorry for it, then. Forgive me. You did tell me yesterday you were a recluse. I just didn't realize that meant you went without human company at all."

There was no protest he could make. The Enchantress didn't exactly count as human company. Instead he said, "It is I who ought apologize to you. I am so used to taking care of only myself it didn't occur to me to think of your needs when I went out."

"I accept your apology, my lord." She looked down, and though she didn't curtsy this time she managed to suggest it just in the tilt of her head. He had to admit to himself he was somewhat taken aback at the grace and sincerity of the gesture. Not even the best of his servants had managed to suggest deference without fear the way this girl did.

To cover his feelings, he said the first thing that came into his head, which was, "I trust you found the kitchen to your satisfaction." Then he kicked himself mentally. Of all the things he'd wanted to draw her attention to, the state of the kitchen was at the bottom of the list. He really was out of practice at maintaining conversation. Or speaking with any wit at all.

"The kitchen is…interesting," she said, glancing around at one of the pantry doors with trepidation and confirming Xavier's worst fears. She had indeed discovered the kitchen made fresh food appear of its own will.

"I…ah…" he started, stumbling.

"I can see you don't want to explain that, either. Don't worry, my lord, I'm sure I'd rather not hear the explanation."

"You wouldn't?" This was not the reaction he'd been expecting.

"There are obviously more secrets here than I can shake a stick at," she said, and he almost smiled at the odd colloquialism. She continued, "Secrets you'd rather not tell me. It has occurred to me the less I find out, the better off both of us will be when I return to the village. You clearly have good reason for keeping people away. I just want to go home to my father. The less I have to explain about where I've been since the snowstorm and the fewer secrets I have to keep, the happier I'll be."

"But—" Xavier started, and then stopped. She made sense. She _was_ just a simple village girl, after all, and presumably wanted to stay that way. The less he gave her to wonder about him, the better for both of them. He'd already shown her far too much that he never should have. Not only the magic of the kitchen, but if she told anyone back in her village she'd been saved by Lord Garoux, his reputation as the lofty noble who wanted nothing to do with the peasants he ruled would be ruined. The peoples' fear of him would lessen and they would come around more often. Soon they'd realize what his servants had: that he wasn't aging. The results of _that_ didn't bear thinking of.

Despite all the trouble this was causing for them both, he couldn't bring himself to regret saving her life.

There was another pause while Xavier mastered himself. In the interval, Belle went and checked on whatever was in the large pot on the stove. She seemed satisfied when she returned to the table. "The stew will be ready soon. Would you like some, or would you prefer to…look for yourself?" She glanced again uneasily at the pantry doors.

"No. The stew smells good." He paused, then added, "I never learned to cook, though I have figured out how to roast meat over the fire. Anything else I eat raw."

"Stew isn't hard," Belle explained. "It was one of the first things my mother taught me. In a sense, it's throwing things you have on hand into a pot of hot water and eating the results." She looked yet again around the kitchen, uneasiness radiating from the gesture. "Your kitchen is…well…certainly better stocked than my father's at this time of year."

Xavier did not say anything, though he sat on a stool at the table, trying to set her at ease somewhat without being quite sure why he did so. Perhaps it was so she wouldn't have to look up to look him in the face. He wished, quite randomly, to have _The Oydssey_ to read to her again while they waited for the stew. It had eased the awkwardness between them before and he longed for something that would do it again.

Luckily, at that moment Belle checked the stew again and pronounced it ready. He fetched the bowls and spoons himself and she ladled portions out carefully for both of them. They ate quietly, and though there wasn't exactly tension between them, neither of them were entirely relaxed, either.

When they were both nearly done, Belle looked straight at him for the first time since they had started to eat and said, "I think it will be best if I leave for home as soon as possible."

"What?" Xavier was startled. All his plans for trying to keep her here for at least few days bubbled around in his head. "Do you…think you're well enough?" he ventured cautiously.

"I do think I'm fully recovered. A night in the snow doesn't seem to have done any permanent damage, thanks to you." She actually smiled at him, and his lips curled up a little in response.

"But you haven't seen the library yet," he reminded her.

Her eyes lit for a moment, and he thought perhaps he'd persuaded her. Then she shook her head decidedly. "Much as I'd like to see it, I really want to be home. My father…I don't even want to think what he's going through. He thinks I'm dead. He's already lost my mother. I can't…I can't do this to him any longer than I can help, not for so selfish a reason."

"But—"

She tilted her head a little. "Do you _want _me to stay? I thought you would have wanted me out as soon as possible."

She had him there. He had no response. He couldn't say "yes"—that would require all sorts of explanations about why he, the reclusive lord, wanted her company when to her it was obvious he wanted as little human contact as possible. He couldn't say "no"—it would make her wonder even more than she already did why he'd chosen to save her life in the first place.

She was right. The sooner she was gone, the better for everyone.

He just wished it weren't so. The craving for human interaction she'd awakened hadn't gone away. If anything, it had gotten stronger.

He forced himself to say, though the words were dragged out, "At least let me find you a cloak. The weather is better than what you arrived in, but it is still quite cold."

"Thank you. I accept with gratitude. I can't repay all that you've done in the last few days."

_Then stay_, he thought, but he kept it to himself.

For the first time in many, many years he wondered if his parents had gone to their own graves believing him dead. For some reason he wished to spare Belle's father that fate if he could.

True to his word, Xavier went poking through long-unused wardrobes and eventually found a deep blue hooded cloak that had obviously been left behind by one of the servants. It wasn't much against the frozen outdoors, but it was better than nothing. He carried his discovery down to the kitchen where he found Belle had washed their dishes.

"There is some stew left," she said when he entered. "If you leave it by the door to the outside it should keep for several days. You can reheat portions when you need it."

He thanked her and walked her to the castle door, all the while going over and discarding plans for making her stay longer in his head. In the end he knew he had no argument against her worry for her father and had to give up scheming. However, he did come to another decision: he would follow her at a distance as the Eistier and make sure she arrived in safety. If he was very quiet and careful she would never know he was there.

Belle drew on the blue cloak and pulled the hood down over her head. When she turned back to look at him he could barely see her expressive eyes.

"Thank you again for saving my life, my lord. I am profoundly grateful for your kindnesses." She managed to suggest a sweeping curtsy with her stained, tattered skirt.

"Do me one favor in return," he said.

"Anything honorable, my lord."

_An odd response. But after what that scoundrel Gaston put her through, I don't blame her for mistrusting a man's intentions, even though _I_ know I mean her no harm,_ thought Xavier. Aloud, he said quietly, "Tell no one it was I who saved you, or that you stayed here with me."

She looked startled, and he could see her eyes clearly again under the hood as they widened. "But why not?"

"Don't ask questions. Just promise. It is an honorable request. Say you escaped your bonds and found a place to wait out the storm. Don't mention me."

"You're asking me to lie," she said accusingly.

"It's better for both of us if no one knows I was involved."

She studied him for a long moment. He tried to keep his face firm with resolve. At last she nodded once, curtly. "I promise, on the condition that I be allowed to tell my father the truth. I can vouch for his closemouthedness, since it is so important to you, and the secret would be too much of a burden to carry alone."

It was a risk, but he sensed he wouldn't get acquiesce out of her otherwise. And he was placing a heavy burden on her since no doubt her entire village would be afire with curiosity after she survived her presumably publically-known 'sacrifice'. A girl not used to lies and concealment would likely find the entire charade difficult to maintain alone. "Very well. Agreed."

"Good day, then, my lord." She bent her head slightly and walked out into the snow. He stared after her, at the picture she made in that blue cloak against the white sparkling background. As she got closer to the towering gates, he tried not to think about how vulnerable she looked, small and alone against the tall iron and the even taller trees beyond. However, her stride betrayed no hesitancy.

Xavier waited a minute or so after she'd slipped through the gate and closed it behind her. Then, stripping off his shirt to leave only cloak and breeches he transformed into the Eistier and went out after her.

Following her at a distance was childishly easy. Her path was well marked by scent and broken branches as if the trail was lined with ribbons showing the way. Xavier could sneak well behind her so that even if she turned around to look when he wasn't expecting it she wouldn't see him.

She stopped to rest in the lee of a large tree. Xavier paused himself. Even at a distance he could hear her heavy breaths. Wading through the snow was easier for him than it was for her, though it wasn't as thick under the trees as it was elsewhere.

When she moved on, he continued to follow. It was almost fun, staying just out of sight. He made a game of it for himself, seeing how close he could get. She walked purposefully along, looking neither left nor right nor behind. She seemed to know where she was going, and sure enough just as it was getting dark they did come to the edge of the trees. Across an untouched meadow lay a little house, set somewhat apart from the village. Xavier recognized it from his years of night trips through the village. He'd never given much thought to who lived there. Belle went right up to it eagerly, though he stopped at the edge of the woods. It must be the house she shared with her father.

She was home now. He'd never see her again. She'd marry some deserving fellow, raise pretty children, grow old and die. Just another peasant girl passing her life as many had done before her. She should be nothing to him now. Xavier turned to go.

A shout, Belle's, carried across the meadow. Xaiver looked back over his shoulder. She was wrenching the door handle, yelling and pounding on the door with all her might.

Something was wrong.

* * *

_Author's Note: I know it was cruel of me to make you guys wait after the last cliffhanger and end on this one. I really have no defense._


End file.
